


At the top

by irishlullaby13



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - CEO/Assistant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Ichabetsy brotp, ichabbie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishlullaby13/pseuds/irishlullaby13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Fic:  CEO/Assistant prompt from tumblr.</p>
<p>After an injury puts her law enforcement career to an end, Abigail Mills makes a name for herself and rises to the top levels of the corporate world.  In addition to dealing with an FBI investigation, the possibility one or more of her employees leaking insider information, and a sister that can't seem to stop dragging her into drama... she's also having to deal with, Ichabod Crane, her new personal assistant who seems to know just how to navigate her carefully constructed walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Assistant

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this prompt heralds from tumblr. It was a CEO/Assistant prompt of "your last personal assistant was seen running out of your building with a cat under their arm and one of their shoes missing and I don’t know why I still applied even after that"
> 
> Ichabod and Betsy are brother and sister (spoiler, sorry) because, IDK, I just always got a major brotp feeling from them.

Grace Abigail Mills didn't want to come off as being a dismissive, uncaring bitch, but hey if they wanted to shoehorn her into the role, she'd gladly wear it. She had built Witness Tactical from the ground up after Damon Moloch got arrested for selling to places he wasn't supposed to. Of course, at the time it had only had a small local contract with Westchester Sheriffs Department and a couple other local precincts for show. 

When it came up for sale, she had just gotten a nice settlement due to a work related injury that had ended her career with the sheriff's office _because_ of Moloch's preference of selling the good stuff to people the FBI had their eyes on. She had catered to the local contracts at first. But then she took interest in the documents from the research and development files.

Before long she had gotten a contract with the local FBI and so forth. And the rest, as they say, was history. Now, she was one of the top contractors to police departments, federal agencies, and the military.

All that being said, Abbie Mills was not a picky person. She wanted what she wanted and she had better get it or whomever didn't do it would have hell to pay. She didn't get where she was by letting slights in quality slip by. Hell, when quality control wasn't doing their job, she made the head of the department put on one of the tactical vests and threatened to unload a clip into his chest if he was so confident his employees were doing their job right.

He had dissolved into tears and admitted to letting certain things slide before she was able to make good on the threat.

Needless to say, she got a stern “talking to” by OSHA and a few other multi-letter agencies, but her point was made. She kept her nose clean on that end of things but the tale still persisted and, for the most part, everyone knew to do their damn job.

Which was why she was more than a little disappointed that her personal assistant had stupidly brought Bastet, her beautiful black Norwegian forest cat, to the office for an appointment with the groomer. Bast was Abbie's pride and joy, her companion, her cuddle bunny. But Beatrix _knew damn well_ Bast was more destructive than a toddler hopped up on coffee on her best days _at home_ , yet had scheduled it at the office anyway “because it was more convenient for the groomer.”

The result was disastrous to say the least. Thankfully, all she had to replace was a copier that Bast pissed on out of spite and a box of waterlogged copier paper. Of course the assistant was out a shoe—and they would never figure out if it accidentally got mixed in with the groomers belongings or if Bast ate it. Abbie had seen her choke down an entire rat in one go so it was not outside the realm of possibility that a gnawed up shoe wouldn't be an issue.

“Now, what have we learned from this Beatrix?” Abbie asked the sobbing girl. She leaned back in her seat and folded her arms over her chest.

“That certain services are for the customers convenience,” she replied. “And that, regardless of how much you love Bastet, she does not belong in an office environment.”

“That's a good girl,” Abbie said gently. “Now, I want you to make this right. And, I'm pretty sure you know where this is heading without me telling you.” When the girl looked ready to burst into tears anew, Abbie added, “But don't worry. You will still get your college credit. For the most part you did all right. You are probably just better suited for someone that's not as... _demanding_ as me.”

Beatrix nodded shakily but was still fighting off the urge to cry. Abbie pulled herself from her seat and walked over to push the office doors open.

“Just let me know when you've dropped Bastet off and you are free to go.”

“Yes ma'am. I will call you as soon as she's dropped off at the groomer, Miss Mills.” Beatrix limped out of the office, her arms full of caterwauling Bastet.

As soon as Beatrix was gone she put her attention on her corporate receptionist, Sally. “Sally, get a hold of HR and tell them I need a new P.A. _ASAP_. And by ASAP, I mean I wanted a new one three weeks ago.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Abbie then turned and closed the doors to her office. She sighed in annoyance as she took in the lesser casualties of what had happened. Maybe the next one would be half way competent. Beatrix was sweet, but sweet didn't get things done.

She was in the middle of trying to figure out if she could salvage the the bamboo plant Bast had scattered from one side of the office to the other when her phone chirped. Abbie walked over to her desk to see who it was from and was surprised to see it was from Sally... and it was an application/resume for a personal assistant.

She picked up the desk phone and immediately dialled reception as she settled in at her laptop and woke it from its nap. “Hey Sal, did this guy apply in office?” British _and_ US Army, _fancy_. Oxford graduate, _nice_. Her company prided itself on hiring former military and maybe that's what she needed as an assistant.

“Yes ma'am he did.”

“Is he still here?” Abbie asked. Just from the initial scan of his information he was very much over qualified for the position. _Detail oriented_. God she hated that phrase... it needed to be set on fire. Everyone always said they were detail oriented, even when they wasn't. If she were to guess, he was probably desperate for work and put in for whatever was hiring rather than wait for a position he actually wanted. Chances are, he had found the sales openings online, had just missed the cut off date, but had come to apply anyway.

“Yes, yes, he's still here.”

Well it was about to be Ichabod—Jesus Christ did his parents hate him or something—Crane's lucky day. “Send him in.” Without another word she hung up the phone and continued scrolling through the file.

  
#  


The CEO of Witness Tactical, one Grace Abigail Mills, was a petite black woman with the poise and reputation of a war general. Ichabod felt he was going to regret the moment he ignored the warning signs. But he was desperate.

Coming to America was meant to be his new beginning. But so far it had just been a load of heartache and betrayal. His wife left him for his best friend yet he still somehow ended up both out of a job and fighting against paying a ridiculous amount of alimony—which the lawyers were still fighting about—at least until the two got married in the spring. If they got married. Just his luck his ex would realize his friend was a complete walnut and try to worm her way back into his life. Or they wouldn't get married just so they could live off of the cheque he would be sending her every month.

Not that he would have her back at any rate. There were some betrayals one would be foolish to reconcile. Although it served him right considering she had originally left the same friend for him. That should have been a huge, flashing, neon sign that said “Don't do it” but he had been stupid and starved for affection—at least he could admit it.

Just as with the warning signs about his ex, the signs about the personal assistant position—the young woman limping out, missing a shoe and carrying a wet cat, sobbing for starters—and then there was the appearance of Miss Mills herself. She had been cool, calm, head held high, flawlessly beautiful as she snapped out a demand for a new personal assistant.

This time the warning signs had been accompanied by sirens and a “please step away from the desk and run while you still can” echoing in his head.

The cherub faced receptionist, Sally, looked up at Ichabod. “We... just had a position come open for a personal assistant.” She lowered her voice and leaned over her desk as she offered him a tablet. “ _And_ given her reputation... you won't have much competition for the position. So if you really are as desperate as you claim, I'd do it. If anything it can tied you over until you find something else.”

He considered his options for a moment then took the tablet from Sally to fill out their digital application. Whilst it was _not_ the sales position he had initially hoped to ensnare, it would provide him with a much needed income. Besides, it was only meant to be temporary anyway, until he could secure a teaching job up-state and get far away from New York City.

He thought Sleepy Hollow would suffice, but no, it was still considerably too near. Through absolutely no effort on his part, he had come across his ex and his friend whilst they were having an outing. Which was a shame because he actually rather liked Sleepy Hollow and knew why his mother was still so fond of her hometown.

There were tales about the CEO of Witness Tactical Enterprises—a company that specialized in producing equipment for police forces, federal agencies, and even the military. Her face had graced the cover of Fortune 500 and Forbes. She was also notorious for having very little patience for “screw ups.” She had a background in the police force and had built the company from the ground up. So, yes, she was very obviously a force to be reckoned with. 

There were even rumours that, once upon a time, she used to make those applying for certain positions take a bullet while wearing one of the bulletproof vests—that is until someone filed a complaint and certain agencies made her put a stop to it. Whether or not it was true was a tightly guarded secret.

Oh God, was he insane? Or just a masochist? Or was he both?

As soon as he was done with the application, he returned the tablet to Sally. She plunked away at a few options then set it aside. “I have included all of my con--” 

Sally held up a finger when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Yes ma'am? Oh, yes, he applied in office.” She looked up at him. “Yes, he's still here... Right away ma'am.” She hung up the phone and looked up at him. “She wants to see you in her office.” She gave him a sympathetic smile when his face fell. “Good luck. Just... no sudden movements and try to maintain eye contact.”

Oh wasn't that just wonderful, the two things he had a hard time doing. His hands had always had a habit of fidgeting when he was nervous and he had suffered from random spasms due to an old army injury. He was self conscious about the twitching and spasms, knew they had a tendency to make people feel uncomfortable, ergo making him not want to look them in the eyes from fear of seeing judgement in their eyes, or worse, pity.

He felt like he was being led to the gallows when Sally led him to Miss Mills' office. Like he was already about to get fired without even securing the position in the first place. A moment of panic seized him when Sally closed him in the office with Miss Mills, who was grumbling as she turned a large planter pot right-side up.

She shook her head and sighed as she surveyed the twisted and cock-eyed bamboo shoots jutting out of it. He heard her distinctly mumble, “God damn cat.” Miss Mills dusted her hands on her skirt and turned sharply to face him. Ichabod clasped his hands behind his back to keep her from seeing his fingers twitching.

“Please forgive the mess,” she said smoothly. “My previous assistant made some bad choices today.” She swept a hand toward one of the leather seats in front of the desk. “Have a seat. I _would_ offer you a drink but... I have no idea where that stuff is kept.”

Ichabod gave her a respectful nod and made his way to one of the seats. His heart was racing. He was fighting the urge to fill the silence that stretched between them with mindless chatter—a considerable feat to be honest, as he hated silence. But no, this was not some HR representative that he had to engage. This was essentially the company's version of the Queen which meant speak only when spoken to.

He didn't look toward her, just looked straight ahead like a good little soldier, kept his fingers curled into the material of his trousers. After a moment, Miss Mills ambled into his peripheral, arms folded over her chest. She walked in front of him and around his other side, never once taking her sight off of him.

She eventually slipped into the seat on the other side of the desk, leaned back in the seat as she studied his face. “On the application portion you said you could start immediately. Did you mean as in, you could start next week? Tomorrow? Right now?”

Ichabod sucked in a breath. “That would be entirely dependant upon when you would be requiring me to start, Miss Mills. If this very moment is constituted as being immediate, then I would honour it.”

Miss Mills' eyes softened and a small smile appeared at one corner of her mouth. “I have a lunch meeting, _in this office_ , in an hour. HR should have your background check back in about half an hour since I told them to fast track it. If you can get this office presentable within forty-five minutes, the job is yours. If not, you will get paid the going rate for cleaning service and sent on your way.” She stood, her hands atop the desk. “I'll be back in forty-five minutes and not a second later.”

To drive home her threat, she picked up her phone and then showed him that she had started a timer before striding out of the office without looking back.

  
#  


Abbie hummed and tapped her foot along with the tune in the elevator. She had taken her time at the Starbucks in the food court of the building. She hadn't complained despite the fact her drink didn't taste right—it was entirely too bitter. _Like her soul_ , she mused to herself. She found herself to be absolutely hilarious.

In all honesty, she had plenty to be bitter about—being put out of commission due to a faulty bullet proof vest while on the cusp of being able to get out of Sleepy Hollow for good? Dad running off. Mom killing herself? A sister who was constantly making questionable decisions? Sister bringing her into questionable decisions on a semi-regular basis? 

And that was before working her way up the corporate ladder. Since then there had been corporate enemies, fake friends, a string of bad romances, one or two okay romances that she just wasn't feeling, more questionable decisions from her sister that she got dragged into, losing her father figure and mentor, crippling sense of loneliness because everyone she knew either saw her as a ruthless corporate animal or thought she thought she was too good to associate anyone. 

The closest things she had to “friends” was her cat, a male escort named Thomas, and the delightful gender-ambiguous person who helped her arranged her meetings with Thomas once a month. Now that she thought about it, it was kinda sad her only friends were a psychotic cat, a pimp, and a whore. It almost felt like a set up for a really bad joke.

When the doors to the elevator slid open, she sighed and walked onto the corporate headquarters floor. Her lunchtime appointment was already waiting. She gave J a big grin as they stood. “Abigail, my dove,” they greeted and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

“Hey J,” Abbie greeted sweetly, doing the same. Her phone started vibrating to indicate that the new guy's time was up. Oh well, it was now or never... her office had better be at least presentable. “Sally, hold all calls for the next hour while J and I have our weekly gossip.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sally chimed.

Abbie pushed the doors to her office open and had to pause out of pure shock. It was spotless. There was absolutely no trace that her cat had destroyed it. Near the window that overlooked the river, the applicant was putting cups of tea on the small cafe table she sometimes used when she wanted a view while she worked. He had located the beverages at least.

He turned toward them as they entered the office. “I spoke with Miss Sally and she mentioned you and your guest typically had tea for your weekly meeting,” he said.

Okay, she was impressed enough to give him a chance. Abbie cleared her throat and turned toward J. “J, this is my new assistant, ah... Ichabod Crane. Mister Crane, this is J.”

J offered their hand daintily toward Mister Crane. “Well hello there gorgeous,” J greeted when Crane took their hand bowed over it politely. 

J arched an eyebrow at Abbie, Abbie shook her head. She knew what was going through their head. “Mister Crane was just about to go down to the first floor and do his new hire paperwork.” Something akin to joy filled his eyes and he nodded politely before leaving the office. 

Once the doors to the office were closed, J fanned themselves. “Damn... If you change your mind, sweetness, I would like to have him as _my_ assistant.”

“You don't have assistants J,” Abbie reminded. 

J took a seat at the table and took a sip of their tea. They hummed playfully. “I could start. At any rate, I know more than a couple of ladies that would pay good money for tall, dark, and British. Especially since your precious Thomas is always booked up.”

Abbie took a seat. “All right, J, we've been through this. You're not allowed to plot about stealing my employees while you're actually in front of me,” she teased. “Especially ones that aren't even hired in yet.”

“You're still bitter because I stole Luke,” J shot back playfully.

“He was not only a good friend and fellow former officer. He was the best liaison I had with Westchester Sheriffs Department, so yes, I _am_ still bitter about it,” Abbie sipped her tea and sat back in her chair. “But I ain't mad. As long as you're taking good care of him and he's happy.”

J set down their tea and sighed happily. “Oh I am, baby, and he is. But before we get to the fun stuff, because we _always_ drag on forever... You know Tommy keeps his weekends open until we nail down what day you _need_ him on.”

Abbie set down her tea. “I actually have a function next weekend that I need a date for, so... how about next Friday afternoon through Sunday night?”

“An entire weekend? He's going to feel spoiled rotten by time he gets back,” J preened. They pulled their phone from their pocket and after a few swipes and taps, they put it away again. “I got you on his schedule babe. Is that coming from your expense account or personal?”

“Friday night and Sunday will be from my personal, Saturday will be my expense account.” Abbie thought a moment. “And please make sure you use the correct vendor. Because I don't like explaining to my accountant why there is a charge named '50 pounds of uncut cocaine' in my business expense account.”

J suppressed a laugh. “I fixed it! It was only meant to be a joke anyway, sweetheart.”

“It better have been,” Abbie muttered. She still remembered the questioning look her accountant had given her when that charge came up. Oh, you can guarantee she had called J right then and there and gave them a piece of her mind—while J laughed their ass off about it—until it was fixed. 

Even though it had obviously just been a playful joke between friends three years ago, her accountant _still_ eyed her suspiciously when 'J.J. Entertainment' popped up in the expense account.

After the business side of their weekly gossip-fest was done, Abbie's lunch hour seemed to whisk by entirely too quick and ran over an extra hour. On most days it would have been problematic, but she had long started keeping J's visit days free and clear for that very reason.

By the end of the day, with the combined efforts of herself and her new assistant, her demolished copier was scheduled to be replaced the following morning, her interior designer had been squeezed in to go over ideas of a “new look” for her office between the copier delivery and a 10am meeting with the deputy director of the local FBI office. Not to mention she had visited every department to check in with the supervisors and department heads and introduce them to the new assistant so they wouldn't give him a hard time if she had to send him down for something. 

About an hour before quitting time, she gave the assistant a key to her penthouse with the instructions for handling her cat for the trip home from the groomer. “After that you are good to go home for the day,” Abbie said. “Just be here by nine o'clock in the morning. That is, if you decide to come back.”

“Oh I most certain am, Miss Mills,” Mister Crane replied. “And I cannot thank you enough for the opportunity to work for you.”

Abbie laughed softly. “Don't be so quick to say something like that. You haven't been in a car with Bastet yet.” She stretched her hand across her desk. Just as he had done with J, he gently took her fingers and bowed over her hand. She almost felt like she should curtsey or something.

Part of her wondered if that was a British thing because Thomas did it too, except he kissed her hand.

Once he left, Sally poked her head into the office. “All right Abs, what's the deal with the new assistant? Married, single, gay, straight, questionable? I've already had six people call to ask today. Well, James called three times to ask but he only counts as one.”

Abbie sighed heavily and closed her laptop. She hated when she had a new assistant. Mostly because of this type of discussion would be going on for the first couple of weeks. Almost everyone called Sally to get he details on the who's and what's of her new assistants. 

And in the fact the new assistant was a reasonably good-looking man in an corporation that consisted mostly of women... yeah she could tell the office gossip was not going to be passing the Bechdel test for at least a month. Maybe two.

However, Abbie was not one for gossip—hell, even when J visited, it was J gossiping and her just sitting back a laughing at their telling of it. She would let the assistant himself inform whomever wanted information personally. 

“I honestly don't know that much, aside from what was on his resume. But, judging by the indention and tan lines on his left ring finger, I would say recently single. Other than that your guess is as good as mine,” she said with a finality that ended that line of questioning.

Sally smiled sweetly. “You would have been a great profiler,” she said softly. 

“I know. You should have seen me in my prime with Westchester,” Abbie replied. “But instead making it to the FBI, I almost died and rose from the ashes as a corporate monster. It's all about balance.” She smiled tightly and then tried to laugh off the jab at herself. “Could you let security know that Thomas will be coming into town, not this Friday but, _next_ Friday and that it is perfectly okay for him to park in my spot until we come down stairs.”

Sally nodded gently. “Sure thing, ma'am. And for the record... you're the furthest thing from a monster. Your employees love you which means... not a monster.”

Abbie stood and retrieved her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk. “Could you call my driver and tell him to come around to the front? I'm ready to get home and relax. My sister is coming over tonight and I just have a feeling it's going to be one of those nights where I need to drink three bottles of wine before she gets there.”

Once Sally left, Abbie walked over to her window to gaze down at the streets of Sleepy Hollow. Yes, her employees loved her, but she was also the woman that “signed” their paychecks. But everyone outside the walls of Witness Tactical saw her as a ruthless negotiator and iron fisted business woman. She was seen as a fearless and strong leader. The most common thing she heard and read about herself was that people were often surprised about how nice she was.

Somewhere along her rise to the top, they seemed to have forgotten where she began. Even her buddies from Westchester Sheriff's Department seemed to forget that she had once been one of them. She had once been on the wrong side of the law. She had accomplished things most people in her situation only dreamed of. Hell, more than once she had been approached with the possibility of entering the political world (of which she declined because she felt that was something for Abbie ten-years-from-now, maybe).

Of course she did occasionally get the random paparazzi snapping a photo of her in a bikini or out on the town with Thomas for the purpose of body shaming her or spreading rumours that her romantic life with Thomas was on the rocks—or that they were getting engaged. The tabs could never decide which one it was. One would say engaged, another would say they were breaking up.

Well, the joke was on them, he wasn't her boyfriend. He was one of J's rent-a-studs that she just happened to connect with and requested exclusively. Although she suspected there was much more to their _arrangement_ than what was on the tin, she knew it could never amount to anything more than what it already was. Not because of his profession, mind. 

But because she didn't like to share. It was enough that he at least made her _feel_ like she was the only person in his life, but at the back of her mind she knew and accepted that it was that way because that's what she paid for. In a way she even paid for J's friendship because they got a percentage of every “sale” one of the boys made.

It would be nice to find that in someone she didn't have to pay for. Mostly because out of everything in her life at the top, the one thing she hated was feeling alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Abbie scanned her card and hit the button to the floor her penthouse was on. The cheap bottle of 2012 Merlot tucked away in her wine cabinet had started screaming her name as soon as the driver had assisted her out of the car and she had seen Jenny's old, beat up jeep at the curb. 

It seemed absolutely nothing was going the way it was supposed to today.

Realistically, she had hoped to be at the bottom of a bottle of wine by now. But traffic had been hellacious, there had been a fight between an suv and a prius (which, surprisingly, the suv lost) that caused further delay, and then the groomer hadn't wanted to release Bastet to the new assistant without verbal confirmation from her that it was okay.

When the doors to the elevator opened, Abbie was surprised to hear Jenny laughing. 

“I've never seen her act like that before,” Jenny said. “It's weird. We always just thought she was psycho.”

“Oh no, no, no... this breed is known for being incredibly intelligent... albeit they can be slightly possessive of their human companion. And they love to play.” It was the same warm, dulcet voice that had nearly lulled her to sleep several times during her work day. Mister Crane gave a soft chuckle. “My apologies, my sister has three Norwegians as well as six other cats, so I have been forced to learn about them...”

Abbie rounded the corner to see her sister and her assistant seated on the sofa in the living room. Bastet was going batshit crazy on a mechanical rat in the middle of the floor. When the rat started rolling away, Bast crouched low, wiggled her massive butt, then tackled the rat, barrel-rolling into the wall with it in her paws. 

Jenny was sitting close to Ichabod, eyeing him while twirling her hair around her finger. _Subtle flirting_... which he apparently was oblivious to as he rolled a ball with a bell in it across the floor. Bastet immediately abandoned the mechanical rat and started chasing and batting the ball around the living room area.

“Aw, come on,” Jenny hummed. “No need to be ashamed of it. It's interesting.”

“Okay, Jenny,” Abbie interrupted. “Leave the poor man alone. It's only his first day.”

Mister Crane stood promptly. “I shall see myself out.” He took Jenny's hand and gave her the customary bow Abbie already found herself expecting. “It was truly a pleasure... _hanging out_ with you Miss Jenny.”

“Likewise,” Jenny responded. As soon as he had his back to her, she mouthed 'oh my god' and pretended to she was snoring. 

Abbie bit her bottom lip to suppress a laugh. “See you on the morning, Mister Crane,” she managed to get out before he gave her a polite nod as he showed himself out. Silence spanned the penthouse as they listened for the elevator doors to close.

As soon as they closed, Jenny gawked, “Oh my God, Abbie... he was so boring. All he did was talk about cat facts. Where the hell did you find this one?”

Abbie shrugged and walked into her kitchen to retrieve two wine glasses and the bottle that had been calling her name. _Finally_ the little voice in her head sighed. “He just happened to be in office when I fired Beatrix.”

“Who's Beatrix?” Jenny asked in confusion.

“My former personal assistant.”

“I thought Cassandra was your assistant.”

“I've had four assistants since Cassandra,” Abbie intoned as she popped open the bottle and gave it a minute to breathe before pouring herself and Jenny a glass. “Sally replaced Cass. I made Sally my receptionist and hired Sabrina, who lasted maybe two weeks. Then there was _Billy_ who went to work for J, then Beatrix, and now I have Crane.”

She walked to the living room and handed Jenny one of the glasses. Abbie curled herself into her favourite seat and smiled with Bastet immediately hopped up with her for headbutts and snuggles. “How is Mommy's little fluffy princess?” she cooed, rubbing her nose against Bastet's. “I bet you enjoyed getting all those tangles off your butt and made to look all pretty again.”

Jenny rolled her eyes and gulped down her entire glass of wine. Abbie idly sipped at hers and waved her hand to invite Jenny to spill the reason for her visit. Jenny sighed. “I _may have_ gotten into an argument with that annoying FBI deputy director again... or whatever he is.”

Abbie groaned loudly. “ _Jenny_... really? What the hell was it this time?”

“Doesn't matter. I was just letting you know because I know you have a meeting with him tomorrow and--”

“Wait, how the hell do you know I have a meeting with him tomorrow?”

Jenny gave her a look. “Um, I have friends at the FBI?” she said as though it were the most obvious reason known to mankind. “Look, Abs, I don't stay out of jail because of your valiant efforts. I mean, yeah they help but, I stay out of jail because, like you, I know the right people.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, he's probably going to try and get information from you... just tell him you don't know anything.”

“I don't know anything,” Abbie griped. “And I don't _want_ to know anything.” Jenny grinned sneakily. “No Jenny...” Jenny batted her lashes and her grin turned into a full on smile. “Jenny... Jenny I said no...” Abbie quickly drank down what was left of her glass and shook her head. “I haven't had enough wine yet.” She moved to pull herself from the seat but Jenny hopped up and retreated to the kitchen with both of the wine glasses. 

“You are going to _love_ this one Abbie,” Jenny chimed.

Abbie looked down at Bastet's big green eyes and shook her head. “I'm not gonna love it,” she whispered. Bast gave a small _mao_ of sympathy. Jenny was forever bringing whatever artefact she had recovered to her to show off and spin the tale of how she acquired it. When Jenny returned she had the wine glasses sitting atop a large ornate box that she was carrying. “What the hell _is that_? And where were you hiding it?”

Jenny set the box down on the coffee table and gave Abbie a wine glass. “I have no idea. And it was sitting on the kitchen counter when you walked in. You didn't notice it?”

“No, I didn't otherwise I would have said, 'hey Jenny what the hell is this box doing on my counter'?”

“Do you want to find out what's inside?” Jenny asked excitedly.

  
#  


As soon as he walked in, his sister looked at him from over her sewing machine, eyes narrowed. “Where have you been?” she huffed. “I told you I needed the car at seven.”

“And it is yet ten minutes until half past six,” Ichabod droned as he closed the door behind him.

Betsy appeared surprised for a moment then looked at her watch. “Oh, okay. That works.” She shut down her machine and started gathering supplies to shove into her travel bag.

Shaking his head, Ichabod retreated to the refrigerator to plunder through it. “How did the job searching go today, Ichabod? _Oh it went delightfully well, Betsy, thank you for asking. In fact that is where I have been all day_.” He opened a cardboard box and frowned at the curled edges of week old pizza.

He was about to peruse the barely illuminated recesses in the back of the refrigerator when Betsy glomped him with a bear hug. “You got the job! Fantastic! Maybe now you can get your own place and my cats can have their room back.”

Ichabod sighed heavily. “I didn't get _the_ job but I did get _a_ job,” he said once Betsy let him go. She cocked her head and eyed him curiously. “I am the new personal assistant to Miss Grace Abigail Mills.” Betsy's eyes widened and Ichabod could practically hear the choir of angels singing in her head. “No Betsy.”

“ _Ichabod_ ,” Betsy squeaked as he walked to the storage cabinet. “Can you imagine what might happen if I could make something for her?”

He looked over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. “I can tell you now, it wouldn't be whatever filthy scenario you're imagining.”

Betsy opened her mouth to object then clamped her mouth shut. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I hate you.” She stomped off, arms flailing as she grumbled about him pissing on her dreams, he wasn't exactly certain what she said because he was too busy trying to find something to eat. “Just be lucky I have a fitting to go do otherwise I would drag you all the way to London, throw you at Mom's feet and demand a different brother. One that is just a _little_ more supportive the little sister that _warned him_ no less than a hundred times that if he married that red headed... witch he'd end up miserable and homeless. Which, guess what... you are.”

Ichabod rolled his eyes and closed the cabinet. “I find that statement deeply offensive toward witches.”

“Yeah well, I put my last five dollars in the swear jar this morning when I found out Pixie puked in my shoe,” Betsy sighed, gathering her supply case and a garment bag in her arms. 

Ichabod looked toward the swear jar Betsy kept on the kitchen counter. Between the wads of ones, fives, and even a couple of tens and the mound of loose change there was bound to be more than enough to make an order for take away—Betsy could be quite foul mouthed but was trying to work on it so she would put a quarter in for every swear she uttered. Considering a great portion of the money was in there because of her tendency to call him an asshole (or some other very colourful words) he would feel absolutely no guilt over using it.

Betsy walked over and held out her hand for the keys to his car. “I'll have her home in about three hours.” When he handed them over she smiled sweetly. “But seriously, Ichy, it wouldn't hurt for you to just casually mention that your sister is a seamstress that would absolutely adore the chance to make her a dress... pants suit... or since Halloween is a few months out, a costume... I would be honoured if I could make her a pair of socks for crying out loud.”

“I'll think about it,” he replied. “I _am_ only just ending my first day so it is hardly appropriate to make such mentions at this point.” He pointed at Betsy. “And don't park my car on the street this time. Use the parking garage, even if its on the top level.”

Betsy mocked him as she walked toward the door. “--pretentious fu—god dam—mother fu--” She sighed heavily and dug into her pocket. She stomped to the jar and slid a handful of change into the square gap in the lid. “It's only three partial ones so that should be enough to cover them.”

“The swear jar was your idea,” Ichabod pointed out.

Without another word, Betsy made her way out. Ichabod snatched up the swear jar and attempted to twist the lid off to no avail. When he looked down at it, he saw faded black marker on the lid that read: superglued it on this time asshole.

The effort was valiant to say the least. But given his sister's propensity of trying to get money out of it as well, she had made the gap in the lid just big enough for her fingers to fit in and a small amount of space to allow movement. While he wouldn't be able to get money out the same way she could, he could definitely use one of the many sets of chopsticks Betsy hoarded from Chinese takeaway to get it out.

  
#  


By time Abbie reached her office the next morning, having already been to it once to drop off her purse and touch up her make up, her shoulder and back was killing her. She blamed the looming wet weather that was supposed to be rolling in later that afternoon, causing her old injuries to give her hell. Which was just perfect considering she needed to be on her A game with Reynolds during their meeting.

What she hadn't expected was to enter her office to the smell of coffee and... magnolia? That was definitely magnolia.

When she went to her desk, there was a large cup of cappuccino waiting for her in front of her seat. Abbie reached over and hit the button to put Sally on the speaker. “Hey Sal, where did this coffee come from?”

A second later Sally replied, “Crane must have brought it for you. He's the only one that's been in your office this morning.”

Abbie looked at her watch as she gave it a taste. It was still twenty minutes until nine. She wanted to point out that there was no way it had come from the Starbucks on the ground floor. For starters, it was in an actual glass cup. Second... it wasn't nearly as bitter as her normal brew. Maybe they hadn't realized it was for her and he had somehow convinced them to let him carry off one of their cups.

In the end, she didn't care where it came from because it was perfect for choking down a couple of over the counter pain relievers. 

She sat back in her seat and leisurely sipped at her drink. Her eyes fell to a new item at the corner of her desk, one of those little wax warmer things. The half melted cubes in it identified it as the source of the magnolia scent wafting through her office. After a moment she picked up her cell phone and clicked the little teddy bear icon to send a text to Thomas.

_Are you available to come give me a back massage before 10am?_ After a couple of minutes the response came. _As much as I would love to, my darling Abbie, J has us in one of their infamous chats starting at 930._

Abbie tapped the number to call it. Thomas' sleepy voice responded in the middle of his ringback tone. “What 'tis it, my love?” His accent was always thicker and heavier when he first woke up, making him sound very much like the Scotsman he really was. From what Abbie had heard, she was the only 'client' that knew he was a Northerner.

“Tell J you can't make it,” Abbie said softly.

Thomas hummed softly. “You... naughty lady,” he replied, she could tell by the strain in his voice that he was doing his normal stretching and yawning as he awoke. It sent delightful little shivers down her spine. “You know I can't do that love.”

Abbie wrinkled her nose. “You scared J will find out or something?” she teased.

“Hmph.” Thomas chuckled gently. “I'd like to see J try to scold me for spending my personal time with you. But, no, I can't because I have an appointment early this evening and you and I both know what back massages lead to.”

“Then cancel it,” Abbie suggested. 

“My God, Abbie, you'll be the end of me,” he groaned softly. “Hang on... I am... I am free after 730 tonight.” Abbie scoffed. “ _Don't huff at me_ , you delectable vixen. It's the best I can do. If it would make you feel better, I will make certain to thoroughly refresh myself before coming to your penthouse.” Abbie made a little pouty sound then grinned when he sighed with defeat. “Fine. I'll see if Andrew can take it over.”

“I'll make sure to pay you extra,” Abbie said sweetly.

“Oh, Abbie my love, this is entirely a personal favour _to you_ ,” Thomas murmured. “I know how your old battle wounds are when weather is coming in. Shall I meet you at the office or your penthouse?”

Abbie glanced up when her office door and Mister Crane walked in, retreating to the side closet where, apparently, the beverages were kept. She had actually been surprised at discovering it had, at some point, been converted in a cosy little nook with a small refrigerator, sink, and everything. Although someone much shorter than Crane had apparently tacked a target that said 'bang head here' to the wall in a fit of frustration. 

“How about the penthouse? Say... around... six?”

“I will be there,” Thomas said. “Now... to drag m'self out of bed and go to this stupid meeting of J's.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Abbie teased. “See you tonight.” As soon as she ended the call, Abbie set her phone down. “I hope you know you don't get paid for coming in early.” She looked toward the beverage closet the same moment Crane peeped out of it. “Yes, you.”

He walked out of the closet, mug of coffee in hand. “I am aware, Miss Mills,” he said quietly. “I had miscalculated how long it would take to get here and arrived early by accident. Miss Sally stated that you liked to start your day with a fresh cappuccino, ergo, I made certain you were able to have one.”

“Well, you can tell whoever made it down stairs that they almost got it right,” Abbie stated. “For some reason it's always just a tiny bit too bitter. While I am dealing with Mister Reynolds from the FBI, I need you to work with Sally to make sure everything is in place for the conference I will be attending next weekend. Sally can also fill you in on the various things which are meant for the personal assistant but, for reason or other have fallen to being covered by myself or her. You _do_ have a passport right?”

“Of course,” he replied. “I... was not aware this job would require travel over seas.”

“Surprise,” Abbie said with a smile before finishing off her drink. “It does. Not a lot but... I have to have my personal assistant along with me or... I might forget something. I think this conference is in... Italy? No, wait, that's in November. I don't know, ask Sally, she knows more about what I'm doing than I do.” She felt her face warm and she laughed quietly. 

Mister Crane was sipping at his coffee, but there was laughter in his eyes as well. That was new. Normally her assistants just looked at her blankly when she made a joke. When he lowered his mug he responded kindly, “Then I shall consider it my task to know more than Miss Sally.”

Abbie's desk phone beeped. She reached over and hit the button to put Sally on speaker. “Yes, Sally?”

“Copier guy is here and so is your interior designer.”

Abbie groaned and rubbed her face with her hands. “How much you want to bet they try to fight over where the copier goes?”

“I am certain they will be able to find a compromise between aesthetic and practicality,” Mister Crane said. He stood and offered to take her cup, Abbie handed it over to him. “Perhaps tomorrow your order will be right.”

“Don't worry about it.” Abbie waved her hand dismissively. “It's just coffee. Besides, I'm used to it.” She sighed heavily as he carried the cup to the beverage closet. “Could you send them in when you go out to see Sally?”

“Certainly Miss Mills,” he said as he exited the closet and closed the door behind him.

“Everyone on the top floor calls me Abbie, Mister Crane,” she piped as he walked toward the office doors. “I always feel old when people call me Miss Mills.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Then I shall ask for you to simply refer to me by my surname... as I find my given named absolutely loathsome.”

“Will do,” Abbie replied.

Shortly after he left the office the designer and the copier guy came in. As she had expected, within five minutes they were bickering about how the copier was going to ruin any and all the carefully constructed designs.

  
#  


“This is... amazing,” Sally said in awe as she flipped through the binder he had put together the night before. “I mean, we normally just put everything on one of the tablets or use a computer but this is... wow.”

“I prefer having something much more tangible and non-reliant upon technologies which can lose power or get broken,” Ichabod retorted.

“Well it never hurts to have a hard copy for backup,” Sally shrugged. “I can get you the information easy, it's just you'll have to be the one to organize it.” Her fingers went to a section near the back that adorned with bright pink tabs. “What's this section?” She flipped to the pages. “Oh... information on Abbie. I can tell you, if she knew the tabs on this section were pink she'd punch you.”

“I assure you it has nothing to do with her gender,” Ichabod said. “It was all that remained in the package once I had arranged the other sections. And I do not wish for just anyone to be able to glimpse at information about her so I did not want to move it to the front.”

She tapped her finger on a bit of information he had already jotted down. “What's this?”

_Day one. Too bitter_ his tidy scrawl read. “I am thinking, perhaps it is the beginning of the most impossible task of all...” Ichabod replied. “Assuring her morning coffee order is perfect.”

Sally laughed and nudged his arm with her shoulder. “They've been trying to get it right since they opened downstairs so... for five years now,” she replied. “It ain't gonna happen.” The young woman looked up at him. “So... is there a Mrs or Mr Crane at home that might get jealous over you wanting to know so much about your new boss?”

Ah, yes, the obligatory prying for personal information, Ichabod mused to himself. He had wondered when that would begin. Betsy had pointed out it would only be a matter of time considering he was a “relatively all right looking guy with a sexy accent” and was no longer wearing his wedding ring, in an office full of women. “That question requires a rather complicated answer,” Ichabod replied. “There _is_ a current Mrs. Crane. However, we are currently engaged in a battle over estate in which she is trying her best to take absolutely everything and then some, despite the fact _she_ left _me_ for a dear friend of mine.”

“Ouch,” Sally said with a small cringe. 

He nodded sadly. “Indeed. I had purchased a lovely little flat at the edge of Manhattan. It is now solely hers along with everything in it... including some very precious family heirlooms which I aim to have returned. I am fortunate she had no desire to also take my vehicle. I am also rather fortune, I suppose, that my sister decided to allow me to stay with her until I could get my own place.”

Sally jumped when the phone beeped. “Sally,” Abbie's annoyed voice said over the speaker. “I need a venti vanilla latte, pronto.”

“Right away ma'am,” Sally replied. “I'll call it down and have your assistant bring it in.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as Sally cut off the speaker she snickered. After a moment she cleared her throat and picked up the receiver to call in the drink order to the Starbucks downstairs. When she hung up, she looked back up at Ichabod. 

“Sorry. Whenever she has a client that she feels may be a threat, she calls in a coffee order so she has an excuse to have her assistant in the office with her. The going trend is that the coffee order reflects the assistant. Beatrix was a short raspberry mocha frappacino... because Abbie absolutely hates raspberry flavoured anything. I was a grande americano with sugar... obvious reasons.” Sally grinned sweetly and fluttered her lashes. “And now the grand tradition continues with you.” She nodded toward the elevator. “So hop to it mister vanilla latte.”

Ichabod closed his binder and tucked it under his arm. “Straight away.”

  
#  


“Or,” Reynolds said, leaning forward in his seat. “We could discuss the options over dinner, Miss Mills. I mean I would hate to see you lose everything you've worked hard for because of your sister.”

Abbie put her hands on top of her desk and raised out of her seat. Just as she was about to hit the intercom button to ask Sally where the hell her assistant was, her office door quietly opened and he stole in like some kind of phantom. If she hadn't seen him, she probably would have been surprised to find her drink had suddenly appeared next to her hand.

“Would you care for some coffee _deputy assistant_ director Reynolds?” Abbie said coolly. He sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, so you didn't think I know you've been lying about what your actual job at the FBI is? You keep forgetting the FBI was trying to get me on as a profiler before my injuries took me out of commission.” 

Reynolds' eyes flittered over to the silent, towering form looming to her right before returning to her. “No coffee for me, thanks.”

“Good,” Abbie said gently. Mother nature herself saw it fit, at that moment, to let out a low rumble of thunder. “Because this meeting is over. And you are going to get your up and walk out. Then you're going to hope and pray I don't report your ass for harassment to the Director, which, may I remind you... I went to high school with and worked along side at Westchester for about five years. I don't think she would take too kindly to you marching up in here trying to intimidate me and bully me into giving you information I don't have so you can get yourself a fancy promotion.”

Reynolds' jaw clinched as he sat back in his seat. She could tell she was pushing all the right buttons to make sure he didn't think to face off with her face-to-face again any time soon.

“Understand this,” Abbie continued. “If you so much as think about coming at me with anything else just know high heels, skirt, and all... I would be able to take your ass down without breaking a sweat. Think about that the next time you think I will tolerate _anyone_ marching up in _my office_ , in _my_ building, and try to use _me_ as a means of moving themselves forward.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Mills,” Reynolds said, Abbie could tell he was wanting to lay in with a rebuttal of his own. Either he knew better or he found Crane to be intimidating. Abbie glanced over her shoulder just enough to catch a glimpse of him in her peripheral. He was standing stock still like a good little soldier, waiting for orders. She liked to think it was maybe a combination of the two.

“I think you can see yourself out,” Abbie said quietly. “Have a good day.”

As soon as the doors closed behind Reynolds, Abbie eased down into her seat with a groan, clutching her lower back. Once that ache had been relieved, somewhat, she moved her attention to her shoulder. She hated rainy and cold weather.

“At ease, soldier,” Abbie said, rolling her shoulders then looking back at Crane. 

He relaxed. “Are you all right Miss Abigail?” he asked gently.

“I will be,” Abbie said with a heavy sigh. “This rain coming in is one of the few things I can't boss around.” She picked up the drink she had ordered and took a long sip. It wasn't exactly to her liking as far as flavour went, but the warmth spread through her, relieving just a small bit of the pain and tension.

“If I may, madam?”

Abbie looked up at Ichabod questioningly. “What?”

“I have a small amount of experience in relieving injuries of your kind,” he said softly.

“You don't have to... really...”

“I do not mind.”

Abbie thought about it for a moment. She _was_ aching pretty bad. “Okay... But only because you offered and I am really... really hurting right now,” she surrendered. Part of her chose to ignore the way him kneeling beside her, him flourishing his coat out of the way of his long legs, caused a feeling like butterflies in her stomach. The other part of her was silently panicking because it thought he was getting ready to propose marriage—which in hindsight was kind of a silly thought considering they had _just_ met the day before.

Once Abbie calmed down _that_ part of herself, she shifted in her seat so her back was to Crane. After a moment she felt the warmth of his palm sinking through the thin material of her blouse. Within seconds, she was melting into the gentle ministrations of his fingers and hands. 

It was even better than what Thomas was capable of. Then again, Thomas' skills were more geared toward seduction than practicality. Although, truth be told it was having a very similar not-safe-for-work effect. She tried to imagine Crane doing this to injured soldiers on the battlefield who needed at least a small reprieve from pain in order to keep her thoughts on a professional route.

It did absolutely nothing to quash the not-so-practical response she was having to being relieved of her aches. 

“Oh... god...” Abbie moaned loudly, as he used the ball of his palm to make a deep stroke down her spine. His hands faltered for a moment. “Sorry... sorry... that just felt really good.”

Crane resumed his task, focusing his attention near the source of the pain in her lower back. “Thank you for the clarification, I thought I had unintentionally harmed you.”

“So what inspired you to learn how to do this anyway?” Abbie asked, mostly to try and keep herself from making any more noises.

Crane chuckled softly. “About a year and a half ago, my sister discovered my ex-wife was having an affair and saw it fit to stab her in the back with a knitting needle. Since I was trying to salvage our union, when she would get spasms from the injury, I did whatever I could to... remind her I was a very caring and attentive husband.”

“Sorry I asked,” Abbie said with a laugh. “A knitting needle? Aren't those made of flimsy aluminium type stuff?”

“My sister uses only carbon fibre ones.”

“Fancy.” When her eyes started wanting to roll back in her head, Abbie thought maybe it would be a good time to get him to stop. She focused her thoughts again. “Did she do it on purpose? Or is it one of those things where your sister acted in a fit of rage?”

“That depends...” Ichabod replied. “Would it still be considered a fit of rage if she said 'I am coming to Manhattan and stabbing her with a knitting needle' and then proceeded to take a cab all the way from Sleepy Hollow to do so?”

“I know if someone cheated on my sister I'd probably stab them with a knitting needle too,” Abbie commented.

Sally poked her head in the door, right as another embarrassingly loud moan escaped Abbie's mouth. “Do I... need to come back later?” Sally asked hesitantly, her eyes drinking in the scene.

“No, no...” Abbie said, quickly shooing Crane away. “What is it Sally?”

“Catherine in HR said that it is urgent that she speak with you,” Sally replied. “So urgent that she is out here waiting. She said it's concerning Reynolds.”

Abbie sighed heavily. “Send her in.”


	3. Chapter 3

Abbie hummed softly as she awoke to warm, damp lips being pressed to a spot just behind her ear. She weakly swatted at the source. “Nah-uh. I have to be at work this morning.”

“Since when does the most powerful woman outside of the New York City Metropolitan Area _have_ to be at work by a certain time?” The source was a Scotsman that had been playing hookie for the past week because she had asked him to. He had told J he needed some “personal time” to get out of working. 

When Abbie had her weekly meeting with J she had pretended she had no idea where Thomas had gone and even showed concern over whether he may or may not reappear in time for her business trip that weekend. Although, she suspected J knew.

“Since she's gotten a good personal assistant that does what they are supposed to do and knows how to sweet talk her various stylists into making visits at the office. Tara is showing up at nine to start my hair, Bridget—if she doesn't go into labour—is showing up at around noon to do alterations on the clothes for this weekend, that my buyer is bringing me at 11,” Abbie replied, stretching her arms out in front of her. “I finally get to be one of those CEOs of leisure that does stupid stuff in their office all day like... work on their golf stroke.”

Thomas scoffed. “You? Golf? I imagine you would be entirely too short for that sort.”

“Um, hello, I can get custom putters, thank you. I got so bored the other day,” Abbie said. “Me and Sally's little girl spent half an hour in the ladies' room trying to find out how much paper it would take to cause all the toilets to get clogged and over flow.” She shifted to her other side so she could look him in the face. “Turns out... it's not that much.”

Sally had been mortified when Abbie and Isabelle had dashed from the ladies' room with tell-a-tale water stains on their pants legs and soiled socks. Her receptionist had been afraid she was about to lose her job because she couldn't find a replacement babysitter that morning. To be fair, Abbie thought Isabelle was so precious she could have set the building on fire and Sally would have still had a job. But then Isabelle snitched about what had happened.

Abbie reasoned it was what she deserved for thinking the pre-schooler would willingly take the fall.

_“I thought we were buddies Izzy,” Abbie had gawked as soon as the child finished relating the tale of how she had not only given Izzy the idea but had hunted down the extra rolls of toilet paper the cleaning crew stashed away. “I gave you a dollar for promising not to tell...”_

_“Mommy said if a grown up makes me promise not to tell a secret then that means I should tell her right away,” Izzy said with the sternest voice Abbie had ever heard on a four year old._

_Abbie rolled it over in her head for a second then nodded. “I can't find an argument with that. Well played kid.”_

_Sally had stood there, listless, even after the tale had been told. Crane had seen it appropriate to quickly excuse himself to the stairwell to 'go inform maintenance.' His laughter had echoed from stairwell until he had descended enough that he went out of range._

When Thomas didn't so much as react, Abbie yanked one of the smaller pillows from behind her and hit him with it. “That was funny dammit, you're supposed to laugh.” They went into a fit of giggles and fighting for the pillow. The end result was that she got to her office almost ten minutes late, which was fine because Tara ended up being late due to traffic.

One thing that had been neither early nor late was her morning cappuccino. Abbie was really starting to wonder how the hell Crane timed it so well. And since when did Starbucks start making fancy designs in the foam? Today it was a little cat made of—Abbie moistened her finger and touched it to the dark powdery design then put her finger in her mouth so she could taste it—cocoa. Normally it was cinnamon.

No, wait... it wasn't cocoa. Ground chocolate?

Next to the cup was the biggest cream cheese danish she had ever seen, sitting on a much-too-small saucer. And it was properly warm and gooey.

Abbie picked up her drink and gave it a taste. For once, it was not too bitter, not too sweet (like it had been the day before). Not too hot or too cool. It was... _perfect_. How the hell had he managed that without severely pissing off the baristas at Starbucks? Abbie talked to all the managers in every department every day, including the Starbucks, she would have heard something if he had pissed them off. Lord knows they had complained about Beatrix more than she had.

She was about half way through her danish when her office doors opened and Crane escorted her hair dresser in. Abbie halted, in the middle of taking a much bigger bite of danish than she could excuse or gracefully back out of. _In for the penny, in for the pound_. She took the bite and hid her mouth behind her hand while she chewed.

Once she swallowed, Abbie cleared her throat. “I told Sally to com me before letting anyone in.”

“Oh,” Crane said quietly. “I do apologize. Miss Sally had an emergency telephone call and did not inform me of your request before retreating into the hallway.”

“She acts like this is the worst thing I've caught her trying shove into her mouth,” Tara said with a bemused scoffed. A look of absolute horror over took Crane's face or at least that's what she told herself it was. “I'll have to tell you about some of Abbie's wilder high school days.”

Abbie felt her face warm. “You know what, Tara, there are some things I don't want my employees having mental images of, thank you. So could you include context when you're saying things that could imply certain acts?” She somehow managed to look Crane in the face. “I made a bet with some girlfriends that I could fit a softball in my mouth... turns out I couldn't. _But_ , if you recall Tara, that bet won you enough to buy your first curling iron and the girls on the softball team _loved you_ for it.”

Crane sighed and shook his head. “With the way your friends speak of you... I fear to imagine what sort of things your enemies have to say.”

Tara looked up at Crane and jutted her hand toward Abbie. “Look at that tiny, beautiful girl and tell me anyone could ever consider her an enemy.”

“I've made a list of those who have,” Crane replied. “It's actually quite extensive.” He excused himself to the beverage closet to retrieve a drink for Tara.

Sally hurried in, cell phone in hand. “Abbie, do you want the good news or bad news first?”

Abbie looked down at her breakfast and her coffee. She wanted to finish gorging herself first. However, that was not one of the options. “Which ever one makes more sense.”

“Bridget went into labour this morning,” Sally replied.

Abbie smiled brightly. “That's fantastic! What could possibly be the bad—Oh. Crap. Um... Janet?”

“She's in Los Angeles.”

“Nora?”

“Paris.”

“Lauren?”

“She was pissed she was fourth on your list and refused to come,” Sally replied. “She got even more pissed when I told her she was actually fifth.”

“Good one, Sal.” 

“She's a bitch and does shitty work anyway,” Sally scoffed.

Abbie bit her bottom lip. “Helen?”

“She's in Paris, with Nora... vacation.”

“Steven?”

“Getting married today,” Sally sighed. “Javier is in London. Misha is in Tokyo. And no one knows where Cory went, he was last seen getting on a plane for a spiritual journey in India two months ago.”

Abbie racked her brain. Who else did she know without descending into the pretentious snobs that would play games and charge $1000 per stitch? One of the reasons she preferred to use people she _knew_ for everything was that they tended to be more down to earth and realistic. Her eyes fell to Crane as he returned from the beverage closet, cup of tea in hand for Tara.

For the first time in the week and a half since he had started, she allowed herself to take a proper look at him. Despite everything always being concealed by that damn coat he never took off, Abbie could see small details she had overlooked. The way his coat fit him as though it had been specially made for him, the way his waistcoat didn't go overly taut or bunch up when he sat down, the fact the legs of his trousers were perfectly situated against the tops of his shoes. 

“Who's your tailor, Crane?” Abbie asked.

Crane slowly looked at her. “My... what?”

“Your tailor,” Abbie repeatedly slowly. “The person that alters your clothes so they fit right. Who are they?”

“Why?” he asked, his voice pitching uncomfortably.

“Because my current one is having a baby and my back-ups are all either over-seas, getting married, or mad at me... and one has apparently disappeared from the face of the earth.” She tilted her head and looked at him expectantly. “Yours seems to do a good job, so who are they and can they be here at noon?”

Crane closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I feared this day would come, I just didn't think it would be so soon,” he said quietly. “Give me a moment and I shall see if she is available.” He stepped out of the office, digging in his coat pocket for his phone.

Tara looked at Abbie, eyebrow arched. Abbie shook her head. “Don't. My biological clock is _not_ ticking. I'm not having a mid-life crisis... mostly because I'm not even middle aged yet. And no he is not assisting me with anything that does not related directly to work.” Except for maybe a semi-daily shoulder rub because, damn, he was good at those. She was surprised at how nimble and gentle his fingers were for their size.

Tara gave a non-committal, “Mmm-hmm” and sipped at her tea. “So what did you have in mind for this trip? Sweet, sexy, basic, fun?”

“Something that's easy to manage once I hit the beach Sunday morning,” Abbie said with a light laugh. “You said it was L.A., right Sal?” 

Sally nodded. “They are already getting your plane prepared to leave tomorrow afternoon, Crane should have all the other details for you, and I will be holding down the fort until you get back on Monday.”

Crane returned, looking very much like a man that was seriously debating the life choices he had made that led him to that very moment. He sucked in a breath. “She will be here at noon, as requested. Perhaps sooner because she was finishing up with a client not to far from here.”

Abbie eyed him for a moment. “It's... not your ex-wife is it?”

He startled and shook his head. “Good God no,” he retorted. “I wouldn't trust her with a plastic embroidery needle and cross-stitch pattern. Actually it is... my sister.” he closed his eyes and did his best to suppress a cringe, but failed miserably. “Of which, I am afraid is... a bit of a fan of yours.”

“I'm sure I can handle her.” Abbie picked up her coffee and took a long drink from it. “By the way, I don't know who at Starbucks you've been flirting with but... my coffee was perfect today. Good job.” 

Crane and Sally exchanged a knowing look. “Oh God, the phone is just ringing off the hook out here,” Sally proclaimed and hurried out.

Abbie couldn't help but wonder what the hell that had been about. Although, Sally _had_ worked at the Starbucks downstairs prior to putting in her resume for the personal assistant position a couple years back. It was probably nothing but Abbie had noticed Sally sending a considerable amount of flirtatious behaviour toward the new assistant. He had mostly responded to her with blushes, fidgety hands, and that dopey little smile of his. 

Maybe Sally was helping him with how to adjust the coffee order to her liking?

Over all, as long as there were no complaints from either party involved or any kind of hanky panky going on while on the clock, Abbie liked sitting back and watch office romances take place. Most of them were better than getting stuck on a channel that played nothing but Hallmark Christmas specials all day. She just had to wait and see how this one would play out.

Abbie finished off her drink and danish. _At long last_. “All right, Tara... I'm ready now.”

  
#  


Ichabod waited at the elevator, watching the red digits count up the floors. It finally reached the top floor. The elevator gave a soft _ding_ and the doors slid open. Betsy had two of her machines, one in each hand, and bags upon bags were on her shoulders and wrists. “I didn't know what all I would need so I went home and got everything,” she said apologetically as she exited the elevator.

“Do _not_ embarrass me,” Ichabod said, leaning close enough to speak quietly to her.

Betsy scoffed and stepped away. “Oh please. You're a walking embarrassment and you're worried about me?”

Ichabod was about to point out he was quite friendly with numerous people in the building and could very easily have her removed from the premises. However, Sally came to Betsy's rescue with a cheerful. “Good afternoon, welcome to Witness Tactical Corporate Headquarters.”

A starry eyed expression filled Betsy's face as she approached the reception desk. Ichabod closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted back from ten before joining Betsy—who was already chatting up Sally, barely thirty seconds and she was flirting, that was a new record—at the desk. “...I mean I figured you would be pretty because all he's been able to talk about is how sweet and cheerful you are, but Ichabod really did not prepare me for the fact that you are _gorgeous_.”

Sally laughed softly and tucked her dark curls behind her ear. “Thank you... Miss Crane...”

“Ross,” Betsy corrected, setting down her collection of goods. She stretched her hand across the desk. Her face fell and she begrudgingly finished with, “Betsy Ross.” She sighed heavily and looked over her shoulder at him. “God I hate our parents.”

“Betsy Ross, like the flag lady... and you're a seamstress,” Sally replied, delicately shaking Betsy's hand. “Nice. I will let Abbie know you're here.”

Ichabod lightly grasped Betsy's shoulders and pulled her away from the desk. “Betsy, no.”

Betsy tilted her head back. “Betsy, _yes_. She's gorgeous and sweet. I like gorgeous and sweet. I want her number.”

“I can give you my card.” Sally gave Betsy a wink as she picked up the phone receiver. “Hi, Abbie, Miss Betsy Ross is here for her noon appointment with you.” She stifled a laugh. “No, ma'am, I'm serious.”

“And there's the obligatory 'Are you fucking kidding me'?” Betsy said quietly. Her eyes widened. “I was quoting so it doesn't count.”

Sally hung up the phone. “You can take her in Crane,” she said, amusement shining in her dark eyes.

Betsy loaded his arms with all of the items she had brought along. He could tell by just doing a quick visual inventory that she had, in fact, brought nearly everything in her arsenal at home. She bounced happily to the office doors and pushed the doors open, pausing as she took in the sleek elegance of Abbie's office.

“I feel like I should be going into a chorus of how I feel free from the people of my tiny village that judged me my entire life,” Betsy commented breathlessly.

Abbie was standing in front of a mirror clad in an overly large yellow dress. Her hair was up in large rollers. She looked toward them as they entered and arched a questioning eyebrow at Ichabod as he deposited Betsy's loot on the floor in the corner. Betsy was still at the office entrance, starstruck.

“Westminster is hardly a tiny village... And you'd make a terrible Disney princess,” he said, just loud enough for Betsy to hear. “Entirely too foul mouthed.” Ichabod urged his sister away from the doors so he could shut them then led her over to Abbie. “Miss Mills, I would like to introduce you to my sister, Betsy.”

Abbie held out a hand. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you Miss Ross.”

Betsy let a out a small whimpering sound but took Abbie's hand and lightly shook it. “It is... an honour to... do this... for _you_.” 

At least Betsy was actively trying to keep her fangirling to a minimum, Ichabod thought. Although she looked ready to burst with excitement.

Ichabod felt his heart leap into his throat when Abbie looked up at him. “After Ichabod said you were coming, he showed me some of your more elaborate work. I was impressed.” She took a step back and looked down at the dress hanging on her tiny frame. “So what can you do with this?”

Betsy carefully looked Abbie over, walking a slow circle around her. She checked the waistline and wrinkled her nose. “It's good fabric... shotty craftsmanship... Plenty to work with. So, basically... I can do whatever you want me to do to it. If you want it turned into mini skirt with a fun crop top... Easy. If you want it turned into a flirty dress for salsa dancing, I can do that too. If you want it turned into an elegant frock suitable for the ethereal goddess you are... it would be tricky but, I think I can pull it off.”

“How about... just get it to wear it fits right?” Abbie asked.

Betsy snapped her fingers. “Icky, get the Lady Grey flowing and keep it coming.”

Ichabod was almost embarrassed by the way he instinctively moved to fulfil to the order. More than once he had served as Betsy's “tea jockey” at home whilst she concentrated on a job that required her utmost attention. 

“I don't think he has...” Abbie said slowly. “Is that what the silver lock box in the beverage room is?”

Betsy snorted with amusement. “Has he not shown off his travel box of teas?” She put on a mock look of horror. “ _Ich-a-bod_... You have deprived this woman of your tea collection? That is very ungentlemanly and un-British of you. Father will be very disappointed in you.”

He felt his fingers twitch and simply curled them into his palm. This was precisely what he had been afraid of. It was one thing for them to take the piss out of each other at home but Betsy never seemed to have gotten the memo that it was meant _only_ for home. It was especially forbidden in front of his boss.

However, a wicked glimmer entered Abbie's eyes. “Yeah Ichabod, why haven't you shown off your tea collection?” she teased. 

“Because I don't like for everyone to know my secrets as far as tea is concerned,” he retorted playfully. “But I suppose this is such an occasion in which I am willing to share.” Betsy looked over her shoulder at him, eyebrow arched curiously. “What?”

“Nothin',” Betsy chimed, then promptly put her attention on finding the best way to take in the dress so it didn't look like a festively yellow potato sack on Abbie.

As soon as Abbie had left for the day—her hair finally wrangled into big spiral curls and with the promise that everything would be perfectly altered by morning—Ichabod approached the small cafe table by the large office window where Betsy had set up her sewing machine. “I asked only that you did not try to embarrass me yet you did so at every turn.”

Without looking up from her task, Betsy quipped, “You're an idiot. I mean, I knew you had an inclination toward the imbecilic, but you have officially put the cake in the oven and forgot to turn it on.”

“What do you mean?” Ichabod huffed.

It was then Betsy paused and removed her spectacles. “What I mean is... you and your boss have been flirting the entire time I have been here—don't give me that look, you have—she invited you to join her for drinks at the pub across the street before leaving, and yet you're _here_. Ergo, you are an idiot.”

“I... we... I was not...” he sputtered. “We were _not_ flirting. Quit trying to deflect my attention away from the fact you were constantly regaling her with tales of our childhood which should be kept _only_ amongst family.”

“You were flirting. You both were flirting,” Betsy replied. “And the stories made her laugh so why are you complaining? She thought they were cute. And you're still an idiot for not joining her for drinks.”

“I was _not_ flirting. I was legitimately flummoxed by your regaling Miss Mills with stories of how mother and father let us run naked until we started school,” Ichabod groused. “In what universe is it _ever_ appropriate to share such stories with one's employer?”

“For you, flummoxed _is_ flirting,” Betsy replied. “I don't know if you've noticed this or not but... you have this tendency to not notice when people flirt with you unless they have numerous, flashing neon signs around them saying they are flirting. And you also completely lack game so it's always easy to recognize when you are actively trying to flirt. _You_ were flirting. _She_ was flirting. She's having drinks. You're an idiot, standing two feet away from me, being petty because I was telling stories about the time you got a splinter in a very uncomfortable place.”

Ichabod sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his hair. “Miss Mills is my employer, Betsy.”

“Okay? She's the owner and CEO,” Betsy retorted. “What's she going to do? Fire herself? I mean, come on, Icky... what will a couple of drinks, in a non-work environment, hurt?” She turned her attention back to her work but then glanced up at him. “Don't give me that look. _Go_. I can make my own damn tea. Besides I will probably be able to concentrate better without you hovering and whinging about how I embarrassed you.”

He was about to ask to what 'look' she meant but knew it would only be for the sake of argument. “All right, I shall go for a drink... but... I was _not_ flirting.”

“Oh my God, Ichabod,” Betsy scoffed. “I've been your sister for 27 years. Between cringing from second hand embarrassment and wanting to shoot you to put you out of your misery, I know when your dopey ass is flirting. Now _go_.” She pointed sternly at the office doors. “You _need_ drinks with a beautiful woman after all the crap Katrina and Bram has put you through.”

“I will be back afterwards to check on you,” Ichabod said quietly. 

Betsy gave him a look like she was ready to throw her sewing machine at him and pointed at the door again. “If I see you before sunrise I will be very disappointed in you and disown you as my brother.”

Ichabod turned on his heels like a good little soldier and walked out of the office, leaving the doors open so security knew to peek their heads in to check on Betsy when they made their rounds.

  
#  


Abbie sighed and thumbed through her text messages.

_Whatever I have done I apologize Abbie. Please. --Thomas_

There were a few things she could ignore. But she could not deal with a love confession that she was not willing to return. And that was precisely where Thomas had been heading that morning. She could see it in his eyes that it was coming and quickly excused herself to get ready for the day. As soon as she got in her car, she had called J to cancel her weekend appointment with Thomas. 

It wasn't an uncommon thing. Occasionally Thomas would send the signals that he was getting too attached. Regardless of how long they'd had their arrangement, she was nothing more than a client. She felt it should remain that way. Although she _liked_ him, obviously, he served a purpose and served it well. However, he had a habit of getting too attached to her so she would have to take a few months away from him from time to time.

She sipped at her rum and coke and rolled her eyes when a handsome young man started making his way down the bar, toward her, after she accidentally made eye contact. He was cute in that alluring, Sendhil Ramamurthy kind of way, but way too young for her and she was way out of his league. He had the confident air of someone was attending medical school on Daddy's dollar.

He would be _fun_ , no doubt, but she wasn't in the mood for fun at the moment. She wanted to drink.

Abbie was wondering what she could do or say to deter him before he made it to her. But thankfully fate chose that moment to intervene and Crane's voice reached her ears. “Miss Mills... does your invitation still stand?”

“Oh thank God,” she said quietly and turned in her seat to smile up at him. “It most certainly does.” The maybe med-student immediately altered his course back to where he came from. “Have a seat.”

Crane eased onto the stool next to her, draping the tail of his coat over it. She was tempted to tell him he was more than welcome to take it off but everything about his body language said that he wouldn't. He ordered himself a scotch on the rocks and before he could dig his wallet from his coat pocket Abbie spoke up, “Put it on my ticket, James.” Abbie took a small sip from her own drink. When she got the impression Crane was going to insist on paying for it himself, she nudged him with her elbow. “It's the least I can do after subjecting you to your sister all day. She was merciless.”

“Rest assured I will have my retribution later,” Crane said stiffly. “I know where she sleeps.”

Abbie chuckled lightly. “So, I'm curious... why do you have an accent and she doesn't?”

The bartender set Crane's drink down in front of him. He picked it up, closed his eyes as he gave it a small sniff. She had seen him do the same with certain foods too. He was the type that felt things should be savoured. 

“Our mother is American,” he replied after a moment. “Betsy took more to her dialect than the one we grew up in.”

Abbie's eyebrows arched with interest. “Your mother is American?”

Crane nodded lightly and sampled his drink. “She is a native of Sleepy Hollow, in fact. We would often vacation here during the summer breaks from school.” He set down his drink. “What of your family, Miss Mills?”

“You didn't read up on it on Wikipedia already? For shame, Crane,” Abbie said, then finished off her drink. She laughed bitterly. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to invite him for a drink after all. Abbie couldn't put her finger on it but she often felt compelled to tell him anything he wanted to know about herself.

A small smile appeared at the corner of Crane's mouth. “I do not make habit of _web surfing_ , Miss Mills. And, I learned long ago that things which are public knowledge are not always reliable. If I wish to know about a person, it is best to hear it directly from their own mouths.”

Abbie shrugged gently. “My dad left when me and my sister were young, my mom died not too long after that... not really much to tell.”

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” Crane replied after a moment. “But, to me, it seems as though there is much left to tell.”

“Oh?” Abbie asked. “What else could there possibly be left to tell?”

“Plenty...” when Abbie gave him a questioning look, he continued. “How old were you when your father left? How long did it take you to realize he would not be returning? How old was your sister? How did your mother explain it to you? How old were you when she passed? What sort of ailment took her from her young daughters? Your response gave more questions than answers, Miss Mills.”

“No one's ever asked,” Abbie said quietly. “Isn't it a little early in our work relationship for you to be asking such intimate questions?”

Crane's fingers began to fidget so he clasped them together and rested his hands atop the bar. “My apologies Miss Mills, I did not mean to...”

Abbie closed her eyes and shook her head. “That was meant to be a joke... It came out wrong.”

He fell silent, looking down at his hands. She could tell he was trying desperately to think of something to talk about, his fingers began to absently drum on the bar. There were only so many topics that one could talk about with their boss, much less when they had only been on the job less than two weeks. Although, his sister had practically handed her a wealth of material to use on _him_ she got a feeling he did not want to talk about getting shoved into storage closets by bullies.

“Oh, just so you know, it will be just you and me in LA this weekend,” Abbie said. Work was a safe topic. Work was always safe.

Crane let out a sigh of relief. “Has he taken ill?”

Abbie shook her head. “Nah. I figured we needed a break so we're taking one. So, whatever reservations you made for me and him, you'll need to cancel them. _Unless_ it's things that are appropriate for you to tag along instead.”

“Other than dinner reservations at places which Miss Sally suggested, and of course the conference, I had left your schedule for this weekend solely up to you,” Crane said carefully. “I am yet uncertain as to what kind of activities you enjoy in your time of relaxation.”

“I honestly don't care what I do as long as I get to hit the beach Sunday morning,” Abbie said with a grin. She leaned over and nudged him with her shoulder. “What are the odds of getting you into swimwear?”

She was pretty sure if the light had been better in the pub, Crane's face would be flushed pink. He kept his eyes on his drink as he carefully spun the glass with the tips of his fingers, that awkward little smile on his face. “Abysmal at best, Miss Mills,” Crane replied.

Abbie ordered another drink for herself. As soon as her fresh one arrived, she took a long taste of it to keep herself from asking something that would have been wholly inappropriate and probably heavily influenced by alcohol. She set down her drink and trailed her fingertips along his coat sleeve. “So what _would_ it take to get you out of these clothes?”

As soon as the question left her lips, Abbie groaned and hid her face in her hands. That had been the exact thing she had been trying to _not_ ask. 

“I see it is your turn to ask inappropriate questions,” Crane replied, amusement in his voice.

“That just... came out wrong... so very wrong,” Abbie said, pinching the bridge of her nose. When she lowered her hand, Crane was sipping at his drink and that glimmer of mirth was in his eyes. “I'm blaming the rum. That's all there is to it. Don't answer that question.”

“If you insist,” Crane replied. He gave her a smile she would have declared flirtatious if it hadn't looked so damn... seductive? Was that seductive, she wondered, or had she officially had too much to drink? “I was perfectly willing to answer, but now you shall never know.”

Abbie let her eyes roam over his profile and couldn't help but think it was probably for the best. Because if she _knew_ , she was in just the right state to try it. Especially after how he had silently appraised every outfit she had tried on with that same look. What really paused her tongue was that, with the exception of Sally, Crane was the best personal assistant she'd ever had... she didn't want to lose him because she made him uncomfortable.

She told herself she was only curious because of Betsy's response when she had asked if Crane ever took off his coat. Thankfully he had stepped out to man the reception desk while Sally took lunch.

_“You know,” Betsy had said. “I'm surprised he actually takes it off at home. When he first moved in he actually slept in it. When we go visit our parents he keeps it on anytime he's out of his room, so I think it's a security blanket type thing. Up until a few years ago he rarely wore it.”_

Abbie wanted to know if it was 'fresh from the military' couple of years or 'discovered his wife was cheating on him' couple of years. Either one would offer more insight into his personality. She brought her drink to her lips. “I suppose I won't.”

At least at the moment she wouldn't know.


	4. Professional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and Crane resolve to be the most professional professionals to ever professional.
> 
> And fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the beach house: http://www.luxuryretreats.com/North-America/United-States/California-Los-Angeles/Beach-Cities-South-Bay/Redondo-Beach-Luxury-114074

Abbie stretched and yawned as the limo slowed down at a wrought iron gate. Crane was plunking away on one of the company tablets, a scowl on his face. She couldn't help but find the need to hide a smile because she knew he absolutely hated the tablets. Finally his eyes lit up and he smiled smugly at the device. That is, until he realized she was looking at him and the smile disappeared and he blushed as he put it down on his lap.

“I was about to awaken you, Miss Mills. We have arrived at the beach house,” he said.

“Beach house? I thought it was supposed to be a hotel,” Abbie replied, her voice still holding the effects of her jet lag induced sleepiness.

“I consulted with Miss Sally on the idea of a beach side rental and she felt you would probably be most appreciative of having such a retreat for your weekend.”

The limo began to move again as the gates opened to give them access. Abbie let down her window to let in the smell of the salty air. She laid her head back against the seat and sighed with contentment. “I _am_ most appreciative. Is there a Starbucks nearby?”

“It _is_ Los Angeles,” Crane replied with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Do you require your usual, Miss Mills?”

Abbie unsuccessfully attempted to hold back a yawn as she nodded. “I think so. But I hate to make you head out right after getting here...”

“It will be no trouble at all, Miss Mills. I can fetch it whilst you get settled in.”

Abbie made a pouty face. On one hand she didn't want to make him get back out in traffic, even if they had a driver. On the other hand, she really needed a coffee to pep her up. “I'm sure they have a coffee maker in the villa... right? I can just have a cup of regular coffee... It's no problem... really.”

Crane gave her a soft smile that gave her no doubts that there would be a cup of her usual waiting for her once she had unpacked. Part of her wanted to do something nice for _him_ for a change—especially since Betsy had gotten everything fitted perfectly despite being technically asleep at her sewing machine when they had arrived at the office that morning. Just a small something to say 'hey thanks for making sure I don't starve during the day' or 'thanks for going above and beyond the call of duty.'

But she had no idea what kind of things he liked. She knew what his parents enjoyed, what Betsy enjoyed... but not him. And she didn't exactly think giving him a wad of cash and saying 'buy yourself something nice' would suffice. It was entirely too impersonal for the situation. Not to mention it made it sound like she thought of him as a wife or something.

Although there had been that moment on the plane when she had leaned over and fallen asleep on his arm and he hadn't bothered to move her the entire time. Even though she hadn't been constantly asleep, she had feigned doing so and enjoyed her Ichabod pillow. She had gotten to hear him stammer to the hired staff when they asked him if she needed a blanket.

_“Does your wife need a blanket sir?” the attendant asked._

_“Sh-Sh-She... she's not my...” Ichabod replied. He stopped then quietly sighed. “Yes, please.”_

No... no. She couldn't think like that. Just because a handful of people thought they were either dating, married, or banging was no reason to start thinking they were. Besides, she reminded herself, _Sally_. They had something going on didn't they?

Abbie took off her sunglasses as they stopped outside of the villa. _Oh this is nice_ , she thought. It definitely warranted a _really nice_ , very personalized, thank you gift for her lovely assistant. “You rented me a millionaire's house,” she laughed. She had expected a little bungalow or something but _this_ was a sprawling luxury villa.

“Only the best for the illustrious Grace Abigail Mills,” Ichabod piped. “Seven bedrooms, six point five bathrooms, 7800 square feet of private beach, home theatre, heated ocean front pool, hot tub, sauna, wet bar, game tables, basketball court, and of course Wifi.”

Abbie did a mock fist pump. “ _Sweet_ Wifi, no one has that these days,” she joked. And there it was, that silly little smile of his. She just wished she knew _why_ he found her jokes amusing. Was it because he thought she was a dork or did he find them amusing because he was a dork and they were revelling in their mutual dorkiness? “Does it come with a masseur? I could use one after that flight.”

He cocked a brow and one corner of his mouth quirked into a smirk. “I could have one called in for you if you so desire.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You know what,” Abbie said as the driver opened the door. “I am like... this close to becoming batman because everything you do for me just leaves me with plenty of free time to go vigilante. And I have actual police training so I could realistically do it.”

“I shall arrange a search for a secluded manor with cave access as soon as we return to Gotham... I mean Sleepy Hollow,” Ichabod quipped.

Abbie shook her head, laughing as she mouthed “nooo.” Mostly because she had a suspicion if she didn't nix the idea he would do it. Actually, she had no doubt he would probably have at least three properties bookmarked for her by morning. She took the driver's hand and he assisted her out of the limo. Crane followed behind her, offering his arm once he was at her side. The driver followed behind them, pulling their baggage along with him. Crane unlocked the main entry and pushed the door open.

“Ladies first, Miss Mills,” Crane said with an elegant bow, his hand sweeping toward the door.

As soon as she walked in she forgot all about the need to take a nap to recuperate from the flight. The place was nicer than her penthouse. Kind of made her want to actually get that stately manor after all... without the cave access obviously. Or maybe with it. “Wow... Bastet would love this place. I could get her a little friend to play with in a house this big.”

She almost added that it would be just as fun for her to run naked through the villa. But _propriety_ alone made her keep that thought to herself. And, of course, Sally. Her eyes fell to the wet bar as she made her way toward the sitting room. “Don't worry about the masseur, there's plenty of Bacardi to numb the pain,” she called.

If she was younger—hell, if it had been in her early days of running Witness Tactical—this would definitely be call for a party to take place. But she wasn't younger and she had no desire to recapture her youth so it was all _hers_. She made it to the sitting room and sighed when she saw the view. Sprawling sand, the ocean and hillsides... and a gorgeous sunset. It was the kind of place that, as children, her and Jenny had talked about going for their honeymoon when they married whatever musician had caught their eye that week.

It even had a piano for the theoretical husband to compose on. Except... it wasn't a honeymoon and she didn't have a husband. This was all because of _her_ hard work. Which made it all the more satisfying. It was going to be a great weekend.

Abbie sucked in a sharp breath when she felt Crane's hands delicately rest on her shoulders. It wouldn't have been nearly as jarring if she hadn't opted for one of her halter tops during the flight for comfort reasons. “What was that about the masseur?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “No need to call one in... I already have one with me.” She patted one of his hands. “That is... if you don't mind.”

“I do not mind at all Miss Mills,” he murmured, his hands ghosting a path down her arms then back up to her shoulders.

“Are you ever going to start calling me Abbie?” she asked

“You will sooner find me in swimwear than for that to happen,” Crane replied.

“Oh it _is_ possible to get you into swimwear after all,” Abbie teased. She stepped away and turned toward him, grinning widely. That was something else she had been doing a lot of lately too—grinning, smiling, laughing. She suspected it was because she felt so at ease around Crane. Hell, she hated being touched by people in general but she was more than willing to invite him into her personal space and occupy it. She shook her head to clear away a second interpretation to that thought. “You know, if you _do_ ever call me Abbie, even if it's by accident, I am going to demand to see you in your swimwear.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Oh I do not think you would actually wish to see _that_ Miss Mills.”

Abbie snorted lightly. “Why do you swim naked or something?” He neither replied nor said anything further, simply looked away wordlessly and made his way to the kitchen. “I'm gonna go unpack. If I can find my room that is...”

“Second floor, end of the corridor, beach view,” Crane chimed from the kitchen.

It wasn't until she was in the room, flopping face first onto the bed that Abbie realized... Crane had just admitted to swimming naked. She lifted her head then crawled off her bed to step out onto her balcony. Even in the dwindling sunset, it was an amazing view of the beach and, more importantly, the pool.

She mulled it over in her head for a moment. _If_ Crane did in fact swim in the nude, he would probably wait until he thought she was asleep to take a dip because _modesty_. Not that she wanted to be a creeper and spy on him. Oh no... not at all. But she wasn't above innocently taking a late night swim to clear her head.

Abbie wasn't sure how long she had been standing there thinking about the view she might have late at night. It had to have been a while because she jumped when Crane knocked lightly on her door. “Miss Mills, I have your coffee.”

She couldn't have been lost in her thoughts _that_ long. Yet, there he stood, cup of cappuccino in his hands. “What'd you do? Have Starbucks send over a barista?”

“I suppose you could say so,” Crane replied. “I _did_ make certain to put in a special request when booking to have an espresso machine at our disposal.”

Abbie meandered over and took the cup from him and took a sip. “Hmm... perfect.” She could could imagine him hovering over some nervous little barista carefully guiding them in how to make her coffee. “But I wouldn't expect anything less from you. You spoil me, Crane.”

“Any job, regardless of how long term or short, requires performing it to the best of your abilities,” Crane said. “And if you are spoiled during my tenure then... that means I have done admirably.”

She couldn't explain the sudden feeling of her heart dropping into her stomach. “You make it sound like you're already planning to leave?” Abbie asked with a slight laugh that sounded a little to nervous for her comfort.

Crane clasped his hands behind his back. “I was of the impression you knew I would hopefully only be with you temporarily. Until I could secure a new teaching post up-state.”

Right. He had been a history professor at NYU. How could she have forgotten something like that? Abbie shook her head and laughed it off. “Yeah... I just...” she sighed lightly. “It just... completely slipped my mind for a minute.” She swallowed hard. “If... if it's the pay I can... I can definitely justify giving you a raise...” She felt wave of possessiveness, wanting to make sure he stayed near even _if_... “You and Sally make a great team at the office. I would hate to lose that...”

He shook his head gently. “It is not the pay Miss Mills. I enjoy teaching. And one should always try to do what it is they enjoy for a living... even if it is not exactly the best pay. Such as Betsy. She is a certified genius. Oxford graduate. Was a revered intelligence analyst in the US military. And she had the choice of going into the CIA or... being a seamstress. Her dream was to be a seamstress and designer... It very much disappointed our parents, but she followed that dream. But, she enjoys her work and has a house full of cats as she always wanted. So she feels at peace with herself. I wish to have the same some day.”

Abbie moistened her lips and set her drink on the nearby table. Something inside of her made her snap into full business mode when she addressed him again. “Thank you for bringing me my coffee, Mister Crane. If I need anything else, I'll let you know.” 

She watched a play of emotions cross his features as he searched her face. After a moment he sighed lightly and inclined his head politely. “Of course, Miss Mills. I shall be in the next room over should you have need me.”

When the door closed behind him, Abbie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. The only advantage she had at the moment was that it could be hard to secure a position for a specific subject, unless a university just happened to be looking for someone. But it didn't change the fact she felt like an idiot for forgetting that he was only going to be temporary.

She picked up her cell phone and found her sister's number. She didn't even wait for Jenny to greet her once the line picked up, just said, “Jenny. Talk about something stupid you've done lately. Please.”

“Is everything all right?” Jenny asked instead, concern in her voice. “You never want to hear my stupid stories.”

“Come on, Jenny, just... humour me, please?”

“Okay... did I ever tell you about the time me and Joe had to outrun a herd of stampeding cows?” Jenny asked.

She was pretty sure she hadn't heard it. “Nope. Tell me about it.”

  
#  


If he could stake claim to any talent, Ichabod would have to say he was certainly talented at causing women to become upset with him for seemingly no reason. Although he suspected he knew why Miss Mills was upset with him. Despite her trying to pretend she hadn't, he could certainly tell she was.

Of course he probably should have informed her that it would take a great deal of luck to secure a post at this point. Lest an instructor or professor at the places he had already sent his resume to retired, odds were favourable he would yet be with her for a while. Then of course there was the whole grievous mistake/issue which had caused his departure from NYU.

Regardless of whether it was on his official records or not, it would probably give them cause to give a less-than-acceptable recommendation.

To be fair he would probably be lucky if he had the chance to work in a US university again. Unless he finally gave into his parents pleas and took employment at Oxford. With them. He loved teaching but, good God, he wasn't _that_ attached to it. Mostly because he knew he would just once again get caught between their endless battle of trying to prove who hated whom more.

Although he did feel rather at ease in his posting with Miss Mills, he had his fingers crossed that his mother's influence could get him at Syracuse. It was far from his first choice but... one had to take what they could get until the entire debacle blew over. And the Crane family was in good standing with the university so that could at least work in his favour.

Ichabod stopped in front of the doors that led out onto his balcony and stared out at the pool which was illuminated with night lighting. He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and sighed heavily. It was fairly obvious he had caught Miss Mills off guard with the news of his future departure. 

That was when it occurred to him that Miss Mills had not been present when he had been having the discussion with Miss Sally about his plans for the future. Had he already become so accustomed to being near to her that he would make such a mistake? The answer was quite clear... yes. Yes. He had.

Oh he truly was an idiot.

He hurried out into the corridor and to Miss Mills' door. Ichabod raised his fist to knock then paused. His hands fidgeted as he reconsidered. It was relatively late now and she had been exhausted. Perhaps she was sleeping? He did not wish to wake her. After a second of hesitation he closed his eyes, sighed, and put his hands into his pockets, letting his chin fall to his chest as though having a silent moment of prayer.

Morning. He could tell her of his mistake come morning.

With another sigh, Ichabod turned back toward his room. And jumped in surprise when he saw Miss Mills standing in the corridor, head tilted curiously and a drink in one hand. “What are you doing?” she asked, a scowl over taking her face. 

Ichabod shifted uncomfortably, looking between Miss Mills and the door to her room. “I... I thought you would be asleep so I decided against disturbing you.” She said nothing, just stared at him with indifference. “I... realized... I... made a most grievous mistake. I... thought you were present when Miss Sally and I were discussing certain things... and...”

“You don't have to apologize Crane,” Miss Mills said levelly. “I'm... your boss not your keeper. Besides, what you and Sally discuss is between you guys.”

“But I feel I must,” Ichabod said quietly. Miss Mills drew her bottom lip in between her teeth and looked away. “I feel I must also inform you that... my options are extremely limited when it comes to teaching posts in New York. I may very well be with you for quite some time. So in addition to my mistaking your presence... I must also apologize for not clarifying that... lest Syracuse calls, or by some miracle NYU wishes to have me back, I may be a rather permanent fixture.”

A small smile appeared on Miss Mills' lips. “What did you do to piss off the folks at NYU?” she asked softly.

Ichabod closed his eyes. “That, I fear, is a story for another time. But please, I ask of you, forgive my errors. It was not my intent to cause you distress.”

“Okay.” she replied, nodding. “I can sense you're actually sorry for it so... okay. Not that you... caused me distress. I was... definitely not distressed. I mean, I was so undistressed I was amazed at how undistressed I was.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth once again, then put her drink to her lips to hide a shy smile. “You... wouldn't want to come watch TV with me would you?”

She gave him her sweet smile married with big, angelic eyes and Ichabod found himself unable to resist and stretched his hand out toward her. “I would be most delighted to join you, Miss Mills.”

Miss Mills scoffed playfully, her head falling back. “Urgh, call me _Abbie_. Please?” she asked, walked over to slide her hand into his.

He bowed elegantly over her hand before shifting and linking their arms with practised ease. It earned him a soft laugh from his companion. “Absolutely not,” he retorted, peering down at her. “Shall we retreat to the home theatre?”

Miss Mills shook her head gently. “I have a TV and a sofa in my room that is perfect.”

  
#  


Finding Crane outside of her door had prevented her from doing something dreadfully stupid. Abbie had been at the wet bar for nearly half an hour indulging in what it had to offer before deciding she should call Thomas and get him on the next flight to L.A. Of course, she had left her phone in her room because she'd had the foresight to know she would probably try something of that nature.

But then she had made it to the second floor and he had been there. At her door. Fidgeting nervously as he debated knocking on it. It had been strange seeing Crane, who normally seemed so confident and sure of himself, in such a state. She knew his fingers would some times twitch and dance when he was uncomfortable but she had never seen it to the extent which she had. Unless his entire body would go into spasms when face with the prospect of waking his boss up. If it hadn't been for the appearance of sheer defeat as he decided against knocking, she might have quietly retreated back to the wet bar. But she had stayed put, watching him.

And her reward was that she currently had her cheek resting on his chest, her body draped between his long legs, on the sofa in her suite. The sky was beginning to lighten outside. There was an old black and white movie on the TV. She easily recognized John Wayne as one of his many western roles. The volume was barely loud enough to hear. Crane must have turned it down after she had fallen asleep.

The sounds of the Pacific and sea life greeting the day floated in through the open balcony doors. Abbie closed her eyes and sighed with contentment as she burrowed into the warmth of Ichabod's body. How he could comfortably sleep, fully clothed—coat, tie, shoes, and all—was beyond her, yet he was resting peacefully, one of his hands resting near the middle of her back.

She shifted until she was more comfortably situated. Crane's hand moved to rest on the curve of her waist and he made a soft murmuring sound in his sleep. Abbie smiled and shimmied herself up until her face was nuzzled in the curve of his neck. 

“Hmm...” Ichabod hummed. Then his voice came out in a low, sensual purr, “Miss Mills...” He made the soft sound again and Abbie wasn't entirely sure if he had woke up momentarily because of her scooting around or if he was dreaming about her.

She gripped his shirt in her fist and settled in where she was, so not to actually wake him if she hadn't. Abbie breathed in deeply and smiled as she wondered what kind of cologne he used. It made her think of a library filled with old books on a rainy day. _Comforting_. After a moment she remembered he was a _history_ professor so he probably spent a lot of time around old books. 

That ushered in the mental image of him plopped down in the middle of her penthouse living room floor, surrounded by dusty, leather-bound books, fervently flipping through the pages of a book cradled in one of his hands and another resting on his knee, a pen caught between his teeth. Then Bastet would lazily tiptoe up to him and whirl around him until he set the book down and gave her attention.

Abbie could imagine herself bringing him a mug of tea and settling down next to him with her own. Crane would look down at her with that cute smile she liked. “ _Thank you darling_ ,” he would say and drop a kiss on her lips. She would tuck herself close to his side and he would put his arm around her waist, hugging her closer. He would place another kiss on top of her head and they would just sit there watching the rain and quietly, playfully bickering about who Bastet loved more. Once they had set aside their cups, they would playfully swat at each other's hands trying to keep the other from petting the cat that was clearly big enough for them to pet at the same time.

It was a simple little daydream but Abbie liked it. And maybe it would end with them pushing some of the books out of the way and making love right there in the middle of her living room. Who was she kidding, of course it would end that way.

“Miss Mills,” Crane murmured. “Are you quite comfortable?”

“Mmhmm,” Abbie hummed in response. She lifted her head and peered down at him. His eyes were barely open and a half smile was on his lips. “What about you?”

“I was perfectly comfortable until a tiny little pixie decided I was a tree, meant to be climbed,” he replied sleepily.

“Technically, since you're laying down, you're not a tree,” Abbie pointed out.

“A fallen tree then.”

“That works.” Abbie settled her face back into the curve of his shoulder. For a moment she thought he had drifted back to sleep. But the hand he had at her waist slid to her back, up her spine, then back down before coming to a rest on the curve of her ass, his fingers gently grasping what she had to offer through her sleep shirt.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Abbie didn't want to lift her head to see if he was actually aware of what he was doing or not. She brushed her lips against a strip of skin between the collar of his shirt and his beard. The hand on her backside flexed and Crane hummed softly.

“Miss Mills...” Crane said quietly. 

“Hmm?” 

“It is almost time to start getting ready for the conference.”

Right. The conference. Damn her success that put her in high demand to speak to young women... No matter how much she preferred to stay cuddled up to her assistant all day—because he was warm and made a great pillow—the conference _was_ the entire reason she had come to L.A. in the first place. The positive side was, she could run away back to the life of leisure as soon as she was done giving her speech if she wanted to.

“Do I have to?” Abbie asked. “I can't just... fake being sick and enjoy the weekend?”

“Theoretically... yes. You could but...” Crane replied. “If I have learned anything it is that Grace Abigail Mills would not turn away the chance to encourage and inspire the future generation of avid, entrepreneurial women.”

Abbie sighed heavily. “Damn... you're right.” She lifted her head. “How do you know me so well in such little time?”

“I'm very observant,” Crane replied. “That and... I may have read your unofficial biography in which you were quoted as saying--”

“Grace Abigail Mills will never turn away the chance to encourage and inspire the future generation of avid, entrepreneurial women,” they finished together. 

Abbie couldn't help herself and started giggling. “I hate that quote. That's not even how I wanted them to end the book. I said that when they asked me to say something to inspire anyone reading it... and they used it. I thought what I wanted used was much more profound and inspiring. But they didn't use it.”

“Oh? What words of wisdom did you wish to close on?” Crane asked. The hand at her ass drifted back up her spine.

“Actually... I... don't remember,” Abbie said after a moment of thought. “Huh... must not have been as profound as anticipated.” She raised her head finally. “Why would you read my biography?”

“I told you that I endeavoured to know more about you than Miss Sally did. And... Betsy just happened to have a copy on hand for me to borrow,” Crane replied.

“Show off.” She slid her hands inside of his coat and tucked her head under his chin. Abbie was surprised that she didn't feel excessive boniness as she had anticipated. He actually felt pretty muscular for such a skinny thing. Crane sucked in a breath and shifted when her fingers brushed a ticklish spot just above his hip.

Abbie cackled wickedly and scurried her fingers over the spot again, making him squirm again and snort to hold back a laugh. “ _Miss Mills_...” he lightly objected when she did it again. She only wondered if the other side was ticklish too. With an impish grin, she attacked both sides at he same time.

And found herself suddenly pinned down on the sofa.

She wasn't even sure how that had happened. Yet Crane was straddling her knees and had both of her wrists pinned above her head with one of his massive hands. Part of her wanted to warn him that there were two very good reasons not to retaliate by tickling her—the first being her squirming would cause him to find out she wasn't wearing anything under her night shirt, the second being that tickling her would by no means make her giggle and squirm. 

But he was staring down at her, eyes dark and focused on her mouth, his lips were parted and she could see the tip of his tongue perched at the edge of his teeth. So the other part of her quickly piped in with, _let the mother fucker find out the hard way_. Besides, despite the insistence that they should be getting up to get dressed for the day, he looked full prepared to devour her. And if he wanted to, she was damn sure going to let him.

He leaned in close. So close, Abbie could feel Crane's breath against her mouth. His tongue darted out to trail along his lips. “Miss Mills,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Your behaviour is _wildly_ inappropriate.”

No, wildly inappropriate was what she was currently thinking, she wanted to say. She shifted a leg and her eyebrows raised when she felt _something_ that did nothing to quash those wildly inappropriate thoughts. “From the look of things, Crane,” she replied. “ _I'm_ the one that's pinned down and rendered helpless.”

“Pinned down or not, you are one of the least helpless women I have had the good fortune of knowing, Miss Mills,” Crane murmured, leaning in just a little closer. “And I have known my fair share of non-helpless women.”

Abbie had thought for sure he was going to kiss her. But then his eyes widened and he pulled back, as though he had remembered himself. “We should... prepare for the day, Miss Mills,” he said shakily, releasing her wrists and quickly clamouring from on top of her. He pulled his coat closed around him.

“Yeah,” Abbie said, nodding gently. “We should. Although you might want to reconsider your stance on the coat... or you'll burn up here in L.A.”

Crane closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I shall most certainly take your concern for my well-being into consideration, Miss Mills.” He gave her a polite bow and practically ran from her room.

Abbie grabbed one of the pillows from the sofa and put it over her face to muffle her frustrated scream.

  
#  


A very cold shower had been just what the doctor had ordered. Ichabod could not fathom what he had been thinking. Actually, he knew exactly what he had been thinking at the time and it certainly constituted the cold shower, as well as what he had been doing in said shower. Perhaps it would be more prudent for him to question _why_ he had violated his own sense of morality and had attempted to seduce his _boss_.

Betsy constantly poked fun at him for not being “a normal man” when it came to approaching women. She belittled his, so-called, inability to recognize when a woman was flirting and having an inability respond. The truth of the matter was, he was just overly cautious in the affairs of love.

Having grown up watching his parents constantly bickering and being more focused on trying to make each other miserable, it was something he wished to avoid in his own life. With Katrina there had been a friendly affection between them whilst she had been engaged to Abraham. It hadn't been until she confessed her love to him that he had even thought of her as anything other than Bram's intended.

Even she admitted to sending him flirtatious behaviour that he “hadn't picked up on” prior to her confession of love. 

With Miss Mills, however, he was most assuredly seeing Betsy's flashing neon signs. Despite all his efforts, he was responding to them. It presented quite the conundrum. She was his _employer_. He was her assistant. He was actively seeking other employment far from Sleepy Hollow. She called Sleepy Hollow home.

There was also the matter that he wasn't even officially divorced yet.

There were many other reasons he should not even consider it. The greatest being that she deserved someone far better than he. Perhaps a prince or duke, or someone which would rise her up where she belonged, somewhere she could be adequately adored and worshipped by people like him... a displaced history professor was hardly worthy of her. He wished he could think of a scenario in which he would be.

Even if she were still a police lieutenant... she would still be wholly out of his league. Too beautiful. Too strong. Too successful for someone such as he to turn her head.

Yet... it _seemed_ as though he had.

Or perhaps she was simply seeing him as a _rebound_ , as it were. It couldn't be a mere coincidence that she had only shown any interest in him after taking a break from her long time flame, Mister Thomas. He was still not entirely convinced she had been flirting with him the day before.

Ichabod had seen her, for most of the week, smiling when she sent texts back and forth with Thomas. The way her eyes lit up when she received flowers from him at the office. Except for the day of her fittings with Betsy. Something had changed that afternoon and Abbie seemed more annoyed by Mister Thomas' texts—going so far as to turn her phone off at one point—and she had just stared blankly at the elaborate bouquet containing no less than two dozen roses he had sent (Betsy had recognized the floral design and the artisan but Ichabod could not currently recollect their name). Then of course there was her admission that Thomas would not be joining them. 

He wasn't certain what sort of employment Mister Thomas had, but if it made him the kind of man who could afford to send designer bouquets... then he was certainly deserving of Miss Mills' affections. To be fair, the affair between Miss Mills and Mister Thomas had been off and on for years, according to the papers. So this could very well be just another temporary break between the two.

Ichabod had no wish to once again be caught in the situation he had been in with Bram and Katrina. It could only lead to heart break. Or rather, more heart break. So he was going to do what he did best and strive to be a perfect gentleman. He would resist the allure of Abbie's smile... the way her eyes turned positively seductive before she made yet another request to see him without his coat on. Another recourse was to also try to keep his eyes from lingering on her very distracting mouth, which sometimes seemed to have a life all it's own, hell bent on driving him crazy.

Good God, how had he been able to resist it thus far?

All that mattered at the moment was that he had resisted and that was how it needed to remain. Regardless of how tempting Miss Mills was, he had to remain a gentleman... he had to remain completely professional.

Of course... all of his resolutions seemed to fly out the window at a moments notice.

  
#  


Abbie took a deep breath and glanced between her options for the conference. So far she had narrowed it down to two. One was a very professional looking black, sleeveless dress paired with a light blue shrug and light blue stilettos. The other... it was more flirty than professional.

It had started out as a halter top that showed just a little to much tummy to be constituted professional. But after about ten minutes of playing with sparkly fabric and sheer scarves, Betsy had turned it into a form fitting dress that hugged her curves. At the top of her thighs, the dress flared out into a cascade of colourful tiers made from the sheer scarves, to her knees.

After a moment of deliberation, Abbie put herself into the _safe_ black dress. The other one could wait until dinner that night. She wanted to go out and have some drinks, maybe do a little dancing, find herself a “friend” for the evening... her mind almost instantly tried to picture Crane trying to salsa dance and she snorted with laughter.

Yeah... no.

For starters she would probably have to stand on his toes in order to keep up. Second, she just really couldn't imagine him trying to dance. Okay she _could_ imagine it but, she had it in her head that it would probably look a lot like a baby giraffe taking its first steps.

Although, come to think of it, he did move around her office like a silent wraith. He had all the theatrics of a thespian, moving hither and yonder with grace and ease, waving his hands as he spoke. But... that was walking and that didn't always translate well to dancing (and in her case it was the opposite—her tiny little legs were good for tripping up stairs and random gusts of air, but she could kill it on a dance floor.)

Abbie made her way down the stairs, hell bent on thwarting Crane in getting some unfortunate Starbucks employee out of bed to come make her morning coffee. She'd make her own damn coffee this morning. It'd be terrible and not what she wanted but... a vacation was a vacation even when it was a working vacation.

When she reached the kitchen she plundered through the cabinets trying to find coffee making supplies. And just her luck they were on a shelf that was out of her reach. Oh it'd be okay for someone two or three inches taller than her. But even in heels and standing on her toes, she couldn't reach the platform of the shelf.

“Is something amiss, Miss Mills?”

Abbie slammed the cabinet shut and turned around quickly to lean against the counter trying to look calm and casual. Like she hadn't been mentally calculating how far back she would have to stand to get enough momentum to hop onto the counter. He was looking particularly nice today, a smart black suit with a light blue tie and waistcoat, topped off with a black version of the long coat he never took off. She suddenly made her wonder exactly how many of those damn things he had.

“I was... wanting to make some coffee. That's all.” Her eyes fell to his arms which were laden with a plastic bag and a weird looking wooden box with a crank on top of it. “What's all that for?”

Crane sucked in a breath as he set the items on the counter near the espresso machine. “I suppose you were bound to find out eventually. I had hoped it would be much later...” 

Abbie was able to quickly put two and two together. “ _You_ have been making my coffee?” He gave her a polite nod as he pulled the items he would be needing from the bag and setting them on the counter. He was making it really hard for her to figure out something nice to do to repay him for all the extra things he did for--

Her brain derailed, her mouth dropped gently open, and a small sound escaped her throat as Crane shrugged off his coat, folded it neatly and set it on the island behind him. Just when Abbie thought it was safe to think, his fingers went to the buttons of his waist coat. He closed his eyes and puffed out a breath before unbuttoning it, peeling it off slowly, and placing it on top of his coat. Abbie settled against the lower cabinet comfortably and lightly fingered her necklace as she continued to observe.

Crane cast a hesitant glance in her direction. The apples of his cheeks tinged pink as his fingers made quick work of the buttons of his sleeves before rolling them up to his elbows. _Those_ were not skinny little arms like she had thought. She couldn't help but wonder what else he was hiding under those clothes.

He puffed out another sigh as he tugged at his tie to loosen it just enough to unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt.

“My apologies, Miss Mills,” he said quietly. “I must curb the professional appearance for a few moments whilst I prepare your coffee...”

“Hmm?” Abbie hummed. She shook her head to clear it. “Oh! Oh... right. It's... perfectly understandable. It's... fine... It is... so _incredibly_ fine.” She cleared her throat and scooted closer to where he was. She felt like she had just watched the intro to a porn. No, no, scratch that. She felt like she had just watched a very filthy porn. “I mean... you don't _have_ to wear all that stuff to be... professional. I mean, it's my business so I get to decide what's professional, right? And... you are... I wouldn't object at all to you... dressing like this while at work.”

He paused while preparing the machine to smile down at her. “I shall take it into consideration,” he said gently.

She wondered if he was considering it the same way she was considering jumping him at that moment. As in he was mulling over the mental image of doing it but knew, deep down inside, he wasn't going to do it.

Crane resumed his task. Abbie watched and enjoyed every last second of it—the way his mouth moved as he carefully measured the espresso (freshly ground, she noted, and apparently the weird box thing was the grinder), water (bottled water at that!), the way he made sure the tiny cups and the bigger cappuccino cup were spotless. She felt moderately ashamed that she hadn't really watched how expressive his face could be until that moment.

He placed his hands on the counter, propping himself up as he waited for the espresso to brew. His eyes studied the ceiling, the cabinets in front of him, the machine itself, then finally her when she lightly touched the back of his hand and trailed her fingers up his exposed arm. Goosepimples dotted his skin under her touch. One of his eyebrows cocked and a delicious smirk appeared. “Are you enjoying yourself Miss Mills?”

“Quite,” she said with a cheeky grin, mocking his normal locution. Her hand drifted over the folds of material at his elbow and she lightly palmed his bicep through the material of his shirt. She doubted both of her hands could adequately wrap around it. So... definitely not a skinny little streak of bacon like she thought. “How the hell do you manage to look so skinny in your coat but with it off you look...” _Sexy. Fuckable._ She was trying very hard to figure out a word that would _not_ be overtly sexual.

Thankfully Crane came to her rescue and answered the question with her having to finish. “It's bigger on the inside,” he quipped. 

“I bet it is,” Abbie replied sensually. Her tongue perched at the corner of her mouth as she watched his pupils dilate.

Crane startled as the machine started dripping coffee, nearly dropping the small cups as he tried to get them in place in time. Within two minutes he set her completed drink on the counter and slid it over to her. Abbie turned and picked it up.

“You may wish to give it a moment to cool,” Crane said, his eyes on her mouth as she delicately blew on the surface of the hot liquid. “Typically it's on your desk a minute or two before you come in.”

Cup in hand, Abbie turned back around so she could lean against the counter again. Crane was unrolling the sleeves of his shirt. “What are you doing?” Abbie asked, maybe just a little too sharply because he froze.

“I am... getting my outerwear back on,” he replied slowly. He resumed what he was doing, carefully buttoning the sleeves closed once again. 

Abbie silently mourned because there was no telling how long it would be before she got to see him in such a state again. Unless... she could start hauling ass to her office in the mornings. Oh, that would be a good idea. She could enjoy her brew _and_ make her rounds to see the departments. And Sally wouldn't have to let him into the office early, Abbie could do it herself.

_Sally_.

Shit. She had forgotten about Sally again. 

No. There wouldn't be any rushing to her office in the mornings. Things would continue as usual. And Abbie would... just have to pretend she wasn't having dirty thoughts about herself and her assistant.

Professional, she reminded herself. She had to stay professional.

Even _if_ she wanted to replay everything that had just happened in slow motion in her head over and over again, she told ehrself that she couldn't. _Shouldn't_ , she amended. She cocked an eyebrow as Crane pulled his coat back on and adjusted the collar. Once he was done he had a look that something wasn't quite right.

He had forgotten the top buttons of his shirt and the tie, Abbie observed. She set down her drink and walked over to him. Crane sucked in a breath as she stood on her toes. Abbie carefully refastened his top buttons then pulled his tie taut, like it should be. She held on to the knot of the tie a little too long, but it was his fault. He shouldn't have been looking so forlorn and confused or she would have left him be to figure it out on his own.

“It's a shame Sally and the other ladies didn't tag along,” Abbie said heavily, tucking the ends of his tie into his waistcoat. “They would have enjoyed watching you make my coffee.”

“I'm afraid that was intended to be a very private showing Miss Mills,” Crane replied, his voice a low purr. “Not to be viewed by anyone else save present company.” He cleared his throat and took another deep breath as he stepped back. “Do I meet standards of professionalism, Miss Mills? I would hate to embarrass you on my first outing with you in a professional environment outside of the office.”

The sudden change in his tone was jarring enough to remind Abbie that, not even five minutes ago she had resolved to be professional with her assistant. If not for the sake of propriety, then because he was obviously into Sally, not her. Why else would he be so hell bent on maintaining professionalism? 

Abbie sighed lightly. “You look great, as always.”


	5. Interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~ >:) ~~ O:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long ^_^;  
> I re-wrote the last two parts of this chapter like... six times.

Abbie meandered toward the balcony as she heard Ichabod's room door close.

He had mentioned the 'sirens call of the pool' when they returned from the conference and eyed it longingly from the sitting room. She made sure to stay out of sight to see if he would make a go for it. Unfortunately a few minutes later she heard his room door open and close again as he returned from wherever he had gone.

Damn.

At this point it wasn't so much that she wanted to sneak a peek at anything—although that did reside in the back of her mind—she wanted an excuse to go swimming. She didn't like swimming alone. Especially at night. Even when at home she would either get Jenny to come over or beg the building security to sit with her while she swam, if no one else hadn't had the same idea as her.

Maybe she could just ask him. Crane seemed to give in to her when she put on her best big, sad eyes. Maybe she could use that to her advantage.

Abbie tiptoed into the hallway and lightly knocked on Crane's door. A moment later his door cracked open and he peered out at her questioningly. “Miss Mills...”

Honestly, she thought with amusement, who else would it have been? “Yep, that's me,” Abbie said with a smile.

He opened the door and hugged his well-loved robe closed around his body tightly as his eyes roamed down her body. Abbie was suddenly glad she had just thrown on her sleep shirt for that night. “I apologize if I woke you,” he said quietly. “I sometimes find it hard to sleep in unfamiliar places.”

She almost pointed out that he hadn't had any problems falling asleep the night before, but kept it to herself. Mostly because, thinking about it ushered in a whole new set of thoughts she didn't need to be thinking about. “Me too,” Abbie admitted. “I heard you rumbling around and wondered if you might want to join me for a swim? Or you can just sit near the poolside? I just don't like to swim alone.” He fidgeted nervously. Abbie placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “I promise I won't harass you about getting in if you don't want to...”

Crane lowered his gaze to the floor and smiled bashfully. “It is not that, Miss Mills... It's... I had simply returned to my room to fetch my...” He pulled his phone from his robe pocket. “I had found a most delightful recipe on the internet and I wished to test out. As there is a fully stocked kitchen at my disposal, I figured, why not?”

“Hmm... a late night snack,” Abbie said with a nod. “That sounds much more tempting than having a swim. Can I join you?”

Crane gave her a soft look. “I was just about to extend an invitation to you, Miss Mills. But I could hardly prevent your doing so, as this is _your_ rental.”

“Repeat after me... _Abbie_ ,” she teased. 

“Miss Abigail.”

Abbie gave a mock scandalized gasp. “Someone alert the press... Ichabod Crane has used my actual name. It's still not 'Abbie' though...” She poked him in the chest playfully. “I will get you to call me Abbie eventually. And it won't be _Miss_ Abbie either. It will be just Abbie.”

He shook his head gently. “No you will not. Doing so would go against the manners I have been taught since birth.”

“And this place may be rented in my name but you're the one that picked it out. So it's _our_ rental.” Abbie took several steps back, grinning when his eyes followed her. Part of her was tempted to tell him it was poor manners to look at a girl like that when he wasn't planning to do anything about it. “I can help you cook,” she said and turned to walk down the hallway. 

It was the same way he had been looking at her when she had given her speech earlier that morning. She didn't know what to call it... adoration? Amazement? Affection? Abbie hated giving speeches, she hated having everyone focused on her. She had been intent on her words and keeping her hands on the side of the podium so not to fold them over her chest or do anything that would demean the confidence she was meant to project. Look toward the right side of the crowd, look to the left, look to the back... And then it was time to look toward the front.

That's where Crane had been. Almost front and centre before her in the rows of young girls and their parents. Abbie had been thankful for a brief pause in her speech at that moment because she had needed to take a calming breath when she saw he was focused on her. And then he had given her a small smile of encouragement.

Her face had warmed and suddenly she felt at ease. She had breezed through the rest of her speech, then spent time afterwards talking with some of the girls, taking selfies with them, and just generally being the inspiration she wanted to be to them. Although Crane had raised more than a couple of eyebrows when he brought her a small plate of finger foods from the nibbles table right as she started to feel a little bit hungry.

_“Pardon the intrusion, Miss Mills,” Crane said quietly, placing the small plate into her hands. His hand rested on her shoulder for a brief moment before his fingers delicately traced a path to wear her shrug gave way to flesh. It was the miniscule contact of his fingers on her skin jostled her just enough to make her realize what he had brought for her. She had just started getting a headache because the cereal bar she'd snatched for breakfast was long gone._

_“Thank you, Crane,” Abbie murmured, reaching up with her free hand to pat his before shoving a few meatballs in her mouth. She cleared her throat when the gaggle of girls, their mothers, and fathers eyed Crane with uncertainty. “Oh, added bonus of getting where I am... Personal assistants that remind you when it's time to eat,” she said with a gentle laugh._

_The mothers looked impressed. A couple of the dad's shared a look. One of the dad's scoffed, shook his head, and said, “Must be a real kick to the crotch to have the pretty lady being your boss.”_

_The moms and daughters looked embarrassed, the the man's daughter looked like she wanted to deliver a kick to her dad's crotch. Abbie couldn't blame her, she wanted to do the same._

_Crane's hand drifted away from her shoulder, breezing down her spine before coming to rest at the small of her back. “Not at all,” Crane replied graciously. “I was raised in a very feminist household. My mother and father made certain they raised a son who would not possess a masculinity so fragile that he would feel emasculated by being the assistant to a beautiful and successful woman such as Miss Mills.”_

_Abbie looked up at him as she popped a few cheese cubes in her mouth. He had been looking down at her, a tiny smile on his lips which she returned. She then looked to the girls. “And that ladies, is the difference between a man and a gentleman,” she said with a soft laugh. There may have been more than a few heart eyes coming from the mothers and daughters at that point. The other dad's had nudged themselves away from the one that had asked the question._

_“Miss Mills, I also wished to inform you that they will be serving luncheon in--” he looked at his watch “--an hour. Did you wish to remain or shall I have the driver come around?”_

_“Hmm, have the driver come around... I want to try that Chinese place we passed on the way in.”_

_“The one with the drive thru?”_

_“Yes,” Abbie replied, pointing at him. “That one.”_

_Crane then took the hand that was pointing at him and bowed over it graciously. “So shall it be done.”_

_When Crane moved away to go fetch the driver, Abbie looked back to the girls. “So... any way. For every company corporate structure is a little bit different, such as, right now I am acting as both CEO and president of the company. Such as my receptionist Sally—wonderful girl—started with the company as a panicked, pregnant barista at the Starbucks in the food court. She put in for the chance to be my assistant when it arose. I hired her. And now she's my receptionist, about to finish her masters in business—and my company is paying for it. Once she's done, I'm stepping down as president and she will be taking over the role. And I know it'll be in good hands because she knows how I run it. Other folks just pass the company down through the family whether their kids deserve it or not.”_

_Abbie tried to imagine Izzy all grown up and taking over Witness Tactical when Sally stepped down. It amused her, to say the least. Then she had to try to will away the thought of an aged Sally and Crane, doting over Izzy in her cap and gown as she graduated from Harvard or some other Ivy League school._

Shaking her head to clear it, Abbie made her way down stairs, Crane trailing behind her a few seconds later. When they made it to the kitchen, Abbie turned to say something but found herself taken aback. Crane had ditched the robe and was in loose fitting, flannel pants, a well-worn, grey 'University of Oxford Track and Field' tee-shirt, and house slippers.

Abbie felt like she had just stepped into the Twilight Zone. Who was this casual looking creature that had replaced her assistant and where was the real Crane? She tilted her head as he played with his phone for a moment. “Are you... okay, Crane?”

“Indeed I am, Miss... Abigail,” he replied. He turned his phone toward her. “Our project for this evening.”

“Gaelic Fruits...” Abbie said, taking the phone from him to look at the recipe. “So... we're just dipping fruit in melted chocolate and... oooh, whiskey. I like this recipe already. So they just had blocks of chocolate in the cabinets?”

“I brought a supply with me,” Crane replied as he plundered the cabinets searching for pots to use for their project. “I am afraid I have quite the sweet tooth. Plenty of dark chocolate as I know that to be your favourite, and a small supply of white chocolate.” He plucked some larger pots from the cabinets above the stove. “I was uncertain as to your opinion on white chocolate but you seem to abhor milk chocolate.”

Abbie felt her face warm. When had she said that? Had she said it the day Thomas sent her flowers and candy to the office? “So... the chocolate on my cappuccino in the mornings?”

“Norman Love Maracaibo Chocolate,” Crane replied. “Between Sally and Betsy, I discerned that the primary issue you were having was with the cinnamon. Betsy just happened to have brought me a bar of maracaibo the day before, to try and bribe me, so I used it. However, what we are using tonight is not nearly as fancy as what you have on your coffee.”

He opened a cabinet, pulled out a plastic bag, and handed it to her. Abbie set the bag on the counter and removed about four different brands of chocolate bark ranging from Bakers to Val-u brand. “This is a lot of chocolate. Do we have enough fruit?”

“There are... five containers of strawberries,” Crane replied, retrieving one of them from the refrigerator.

“You start rinsing, I'll grab the whiskey,” Abbie offered. Without waiting for a response, she set Crane's phone on the counter then bound to the wet bar. She picked out a couple of bourbons and a bottle of scotch. She paused briefly when she re-entered the kitchen, still taken aback by how _at ease_ Crane seemed to be in the kitchen... water into two large pots and putting them over heat, then fishing out two smaller pots .

When he looked up, their eyes met and a blush touched his cheeks. “If... I am making you uncomfortable I can fetch my robe,” he said quietly.

Abbie smiled and walked over to the counter to deposit the bottles onto it. There was a word for what he was making her feel at that moment. _Uncomfortable_ was not the word. Not in the strictest context at any rate. “No, no... you're fine,” Abbie replied. “I was just thinking about how you seemed to enjoy being in the kitchen.”

_And there he went with the silly little smile_. “My father says any Scotsman worth a grain of salt should know how to cook,” Crane shared. “And the Ross men are a long and proud line of culinarians.”

For a moment Abbie wondered if Thomas knew how to cook. “Ross?” She tilted her head curiously as she peered up at him. “Yeah, about that... I thought you and Betsy had the same parents?”

“Crane is my mother's maiden surname,” Crane replied as he unpackaged some of the Baker's dark chocolate bark. “When she found out I was to be a boy, she purposely refused to marry my father until after I was born. Just so I could bare the name of one of her favourite literary characters. And she still has not had him added to my birth certificate.”

Abbie bit her finger to unsuccessfully suppress a laugh. “Sorry... So they were married by time your sister came along...”

Crane nodded lightly. “And whilst mother was doped up on epidural and whatever else they were giving women during child birth in those days... Father imparted Betsy with her name to get back at mother for naming me Ichabod. And he made certain they did not accidentally put Elizabeth instead. Which, my sister and I are perfect examples of why a history and a literature professor should never have children together when they hate each other.”

“That's... actually kind of cute,” Abbie said. “Not the whole hating each other thing, of course. But everything else was cute. Though... I'm guessing you two got teased a lot in school because of it.”

“Myself more so than Betsy,” Crane replied. He got a far away look in his eyes. “Actually on more than one occasion, Betsy visited me at Eton just to help the lads lock me in broom cupboards.” He looked at her curiously as he poured the carton of strawberries into a strainer. “Speaking of names, and if you do not wish to divulge such a tightly guarded secret, I shall certainly understand... but... How did you come about to calling your company Witness Tactical?”

Abbie grinned and felt her face warm. “Oh God... It's... stupid... Sometimes I wish I had went with something else...” She plucked a berry from the strainer and carefully rinsed it with the cold water from the faucet. Shaking her head she closed her eyes and sighed. “Basically I was trying to be funny... and, as always, no one got my joke. And when I tell it, everyone just looks at me like I'm stupid.”

When she looked up at Crane, he cocked an eyebrow and smiled gently. Abbie couldn't help but remember the numerous times in the past two weeks that she had made dumb jokes and Crane would not only look like he had understood it perfectly but had found it amusing. She sighed in surrender. “Basically... you know how I acquired the company after Damon Moloch got carted off to prison, right? And how he had called his company Apocalypse Supply Unlimited or something like that?” She waited for him to nod before continuing. “I remembered, long ago, my mama was always on about the End Times and demons and all that... and Moloch, was a demon or the devil or something she talked about a lot—I can't remember it all, I blocked a lot of her rantings out...

“But with the end times, there are supposed to be these witnesses,” Abbie continued, grabbing a couple of strawberries to rinse off. “Mama always said they were supposed to fight for humanity... that anytime the devil tried to strike them down they would rise back up. And me and all my dark humour thought, 'this son of a bitch tried striking _me_ down but I rose back up to keep fighting'. And I decided I would call my company Witness as a big, fat, fuck you to Damon Moloch... to let him know he was _not_ going to defeat me that easily.” She shook her head and chuckled lightly. “Like I said... it's... stupid...”

“I don't think so,” Crane replied gently. Abbie looked back up at him and could see he was sincere. “Actually... I find it quite clever.”

“Thank you,” Abbie said quietly, trying not to to smile like a jackass. “My sister said it was rude and disrespectful toward mama's memory... and... I didn't talk to her for a couple of years because she was mad at me over it.”

“At least you made amends,” Crane replied.

Abbie snorted slightly. “Yeah you'd be surprised how quick folks want to make amends when you start getting rich. And she was apologetic about lots of stuff when I mentioned giving her a monthly stipend because I promised mama I would always take care of her.”

They rinsed the remaining strawberries in companionable silence. The water had reached a boil by time they set the clean fruit next to the range. Abbie grabbed a couple of wooden spoons from the drawers to stir the chocolates as they melted. 

“When Jenny got taller than me, she used to throw me in the waste management garbage cans when she got mad at me,” Abbie shared after a long span of silence. “I'd be stuck in it until someone heard me calling for help or I managed to get it to tip over. Usually it'd be Sheriff Corbin that fished me out. He'd sit Jenny down and have a long chat with her about _why_ it was dangerous to put me in the trash. And the next week he was having to rescue me again.”

Crane looked horrified. “That's... _terrible_.”

Abbie shrugged indifferently as she stirred the chocolate. “It's just one of those things siblings do I guess.” She curled her tongue behind her teeth and reached in to get a quick swipe of chocolate on her finger. Crane gave a mock gasp. Abbie batted her eyelashes innocently and put her finger in her mouth. “I couldn't resist...” She did it again, grinning impishly as she caught her finger between her teeth.

“If you do that too much, there will be nothing to dip the fruit into,” Crane scolded lightly, stirring his own stock of chocolate. “I do believe it is time to add the whiskey...”

“Finally...” Abbie laughed and cracked open one of the bourbons. She took a gulp directly from the bottle, coughing when she lowered it. “Whoa... that is way more potent than I remember it being.” She passed the bottle to Crane. “Half the fun of cooking with liquor is drinking it.”

“A woman after my own heart.” Crane said, his voice drifting to her ears like warm honey as he took the bottle. He lifted the bottle in a gentle toast before taking a drink.

“Maybe I am,” Abbie murmured as he carefully poured a small amount of the bourbon into each of the melted chocolates. 

Crane fumbled with the bottle, nearly dropping it at her admission. He set the bottle on the counter, out of her immediate reach. “Maybe... maybe you're... what?”

“After your heart,” Abbie said, moving closer to his side. She plucked up one of the strawberries and dipped it into the white chocolate. She gently blew on the berry until the chocolate began to harden, then dipped it into the dark chocolate. Abbie moved the berry toward Crane's mouth then swooped it back to hers the second he moved toward it.

“You wound me, Miss Abigail,” Crane said in a low groan that made shivers tingle down her back.

Abbie arched an eyebrow and grinned around the strawberry as she bit off half of the plump berry. “I was going to share it but... you're way up there and I'm way down here.”

A surprise yelp escaped her throat when Crane lifted her onto the counter as though she were weightless. Her eyes wide, she put her hands onto the marble to prop herself up. He plucked what remained of the strawberry from between her lips as he stepped between her knees. His eyes were focused on her mouth as he consumed what was left of her treat. 

If it hadn't been for the smell of chocolate starting to burn, Abbie wasn't entirely sure what would have happened after that. She was pretty sure it would have _involved_ the chocolate. 

They continued to prepare their strawberries. More than once Abbie's nose got poked by Crane's chocolate covered finger and more than once gave him another fake out with feeding him a freshly dipped strawberry. He would in turn catch her wrists and steal it with his mouth. Abbie had been sorely tempted to catch his wrist when he tried to smudge her with chocolate and lick it off his finger.

When the last strawberry had been dipped, Abbie leaned over to get a spoonful of Ichabod's chocolate and drizzle strips of white chocolate over the dark chocolate. She repeated the technique, drizzling dark chocolate on the ones that had been dipped in white chocolate.

“We still have a lot of chocolate,” Abbie said quietly.

Crane turned off the range and set the smaller pots on one of the other elements. He stepped between her thighs, resting his hands on her knees. “Miss Mills...”

Abbie closed her eyes in frustration and sighed. “And we're back to using 'Miss Mills' again,” she grumbled.

“I use it because, what I have to say is serious,” Crane started. 

His hands inched up her thighs. Abbie glanced down at his adventurous fingers. “Oh? Is it _very_ serious?” She shifted closer to the edge of the counter, hoping maybe he would venture just a little further and discover what she _wasn't_ wearing underneath her sleeping shirt.

“I just wish to say, you have managed to perplex me from the very beginning,” Crane said softly. 

“Oh?” Abbie asked, plucking a strawberry up from the platter they had placed them on.

“Given my first impression of you was your previous assistant limping from your office carrying a wet cat and missing a shoe...” Crane said then chuckled lightly.

Abbie felt her face warm and looked way shyly as she ate her strawberry. “That was a very bad day for me at that point,” she muttered. “I was still ill when you came in.”

“Quite understandable,” Crane replied, gently brushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. “I felt, for certain, I was making a most grievous mistake in putting in as your assistant. But... these past two weeks have been most delightful and I truly enjoy being at your side.”

“Well, I enjoy _having_ you at my side,” Abbie said sweetly. She leaned over and grabbed the bottle of bourbon and took another drink. When she set the bottle down, Crane gently stroked his thumb over the apple of her cheek. Her heart started beating faster. 

How was it that a man she barely knew could make her feel and want things that five years with Thomas never had? She was terrified at the prospect of Thomas even looking at her like he might be in love with her. Yet, she welcomed Crane adoring glances, his fleeing touches, she would probably even welcome him confessing his undying love and wanting to run away to Peru to get married.

The only thought she had on that was... why the hell Peru? 

“Miss Abigail...” Crane murmured, his voice nudging their way through her mental musings. “I understand we have but known each other a short time. But I was... thinking... wondering... if it would be untoward for me to--”

Out of nowhere the voice of Eric Cartman started singing _Bitch bitch bitch bitch..._ Crane squeezed his eyes shut and his face flushed red. He sighed heavily. Abbie started laughing when voice just seemed to sing the tune over and over again. Crane's phone vibrated across the counter singing tauntingly until he scrambled to picked it up.

“Betsy,” he grumbled as he silenced the device. He sighed heavily. “She is, apparently spending the weekend with Miss Sally and young Miss Izzy. She sent several photos.” 

His voice had been tense, like he was ready to reach through the phone and strangle his sister.

_Damn... Damn, damn, damn_ , Abbie thought, rubbing the back of her neck. She tried to calm herself down as Crane continued to grumble at his phone then dropped it onto the counter with a sigh.

“I do not like having a phone which is smarter than I am,” he commented dryly.

“So... things must be going good with Sally if she's bringing Izzy around your sister?” Abbie asked hesitantly. “Sally is very protective of her baby.”

Crane shrugged indifferently. “I suppose. Then again, I had planned to introduce them soon because I felt they would get on quite well.”

Abbie felt her face warm. It struck her as odd that he didn't seem as committed as she initially thought to the idea of being romantically involved with Sally. But she still couldn't shake her earlier musing of the two and Izzy being a cosy little family. “Can I see?” 

He gave her a gentle half smile and picked his phone up, unlocked it, and handed it to her. Abbie scrolled through several selfies of Sally and Betsy laughing and hanging on each other, a few which included Izzy, then several of Izzy with a small golf putter in hand, dropping a bright pink golf ball into a hole. _Ahhhh. They're both so beautiful and perfect, Ich!!!!!_ Betsy had sent as one final message.

Abbie hugged the phone to her chest and smiled at Crane. “Cute. Very cute.” She set the phone down next to her. “So what were you about to say before your phone went crazy?”

Crane looked away and started cleaning up their mess from making the strawberries. “It's... not important,” he said quietly. 

Abbie slid off of the counter and picked up the tray of strawberries. “I'll put these in the fridge so they can set.” When she turned back from the task, Crane was staring blankly at the pots in his hand, lost in his own thoughts. “You all right there, Crane?” she asked.

He startled and shook his head to clear it. “I'm fine, Miss Abigail, forgive me...” He resumed the clean up. “I do believe once I am done here, I should be able to finally get some sleep.”

She decided she wasn't going to press the issue of what he had been about to say. Yes, she was generally used to going after what she wanted and getting it. She had an idea of what he had wanted to say. But she had the good sense to know when it came to matters of the heart, one should always tread carefully. If Crane was conflicted about his feelings between her and Sally, then Abbie was going to just take a deep breath and let him make up his mind.

Abbie nodded lightly. “Okay. If you don't mind... I'm... going to go to bed myself.” 

He gave a gentle but silent nod in response. “I bid you goodnight, Miss Mills.”

Swallowing hard, Abbie turned on her heels and retreated to her room, taking the opened bottle of bourbon with her.

  
#  


Of all the things Ichabod had expected to wake up to on an overcast Sunday morning, the feel of Miss Mills' warm breath on his neck was not one of them. Although he probably _should have_ expected it since she had knocked on his bedroom door almost as soon as he had returned to his room from cleaning up the kitchen. Instead of feigning wanting to watch television, she had taken his hand and practically dragged him to her room.

_“I can't get to sleep,” she said, her voice small and hushed... definitely intoxicated. “And Thomas won't be here until the morning.”_

Ichabod would admit he did experience a moment of panic when she had promptly shoved him onto her bed and straddled his stomach. But then she had wrapped her arms around him, burrowed her face into the curve of his shoulder, and sighed with contentment. 

_“You're my first choice anyway,” she admitted quietly, then promptly fell asleep._

It hadn't taken him long to deduce that she had 'drunk dialled' her former beau and gotten him to fly out to Los Angeles for the remainder of the weekend. That was when Ichabod realized it had probably been a _good thing_ Betsy had interrupted their flirtatiousness whilst preparing the strawberries. 

Miss Mills sighed softly. “You always smell so good,” she said quietly then lifted her head. “What kind of cologne is it? And how do you get it to last as long as it does?”

“I am afraid, Miss Mills, I do not make a habit of wearing colognes because they cause me to develop rashes if I do not select very carefully,” Ichabod replied. His hands drifted up her thighs until it reached the edge of her sleep shirt.

She hummed softly. “So that's all you?”

“And perhaps remnants of the oil I use on my beard but... I have doubts the scent lasts _indefinitely_.”

Miss Mills opened her mouth to speak again then glared at her phone when it started ringing. “Who the hell is calling me this early in the morning?” She swore under her breath when she retrieved her phone from the bedside table. “I really need to lock my phone up when I drink...” She sat up, straddling Ichabod as she put the phone to her ear. “Thomas... _hi_.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “No, no... I'm not at all surprised you called...” Her eyes widened. “You're where...? I'll be right down to let you in.”

She disconnected the call, closed her eyes, and sighed heavily. “Seriously... if you see me with alcohol in my hand... take my phone away from me. Please?”

“If you do not wish for him to be here, Miss Mills,” Ichabod said quietly. “Then you can send him away.”

“He flew all the way from New York on an overnight flight because I asked him to,” she pointed out.

“That doesn't matter,” Ichabod replied. “Social conventions have changed over the years and it is no longer a requirement for one to spend time in the company of someone they do not wish to be with.”

Miss Mills sighed and smiled down at him softly. “You just want me all to yourself,” she teased, her voice dropping in timbre. She leaned in close enough that he could feel her heated breath against his lips. “Don't you?”

His hands crept further up her thighs, revelling in the feel of her smooth warm skin against his palms. He was more than willing to admit, yes, there was a small part of him that wanted her all to himself even if it was only for the small amount of time they had in Los Angeles. At this juxtaposition, once they returned to Sleepy Hollow they would have to return to a world of professionalism—although their idea of professional was not exactly as strict as most would expect, there would definitely be a distinct lack of her dragging him to her bed for the simple pleasure the company.

“Miss Mills... _Abbie_ ,” Ichabod started.

Miss Mills' phone started chirping again, before he could answer her question. She gave a disgruntled growl and climbed off of the bed as she answered her phone. “ _I'm on my way_ ,” she sighed. “Well... it's a big ass house that I am not completely familiar with. What do you expect?”

When she vacated the room, Ichabod released a breath he had not been aware he was holding. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before he admitted it would probably not do well to be in Miss Mills' bed whilst Thomas was at the villa. As Ichabod made his way back to his mostly unused quarters, he couldn't help but wonder exactly how cold he could get the water in the shower.

  
#  


Abbie knew that look. She knew it all too well.

Thomas' face set with his chin tilted slightly upward, unsmiling, eyes hard. Crane cool and calm as ever, a little half smirk on his lips. She had seen that look on Thomas' face any time she had gotten into a serious relationship and he realized he was going to have to be put on the back burner until the spark fizzled out. With Crane she had seen it every time Agent Reynolds paid a visit to the office.

Thomas resorted to bragging about all the fancy places the two of them had been together. Crane had given an almost sugary sweet “That's fascinating” followed by a brief tale of his own and historical facts of the place in question. That was mixed with that gaze that rivalled a Disney princess, which meant he was in no way intimidated or fascinated by Thomas' bragging.

Much to her surprise, Crane had not donned his full body armour for meeting Thomas. Although he _did_ have on his waistcoat, his tie wasn't pulled taut and the two top buttons of his shirt were undone. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was by no means intimidated and was still completely at ease.

Normally Thomas' attempts at posturing was good for getting guys to back off—pretending to be an arrogant little shit tended to rile them up. Not that there was ever much pretending. However, she could tell by his demeanour that Crane's collectivity was really starting to piss him off.

Abbie didn't know if she needed to go get a tape measure or call a referee.

When Crane stood and retrieved her empty cappuccino mug, Thomas watched his every move. Once Crane went into the kitchen he snorted lightly. “I am not the least bit impressed,” Thomas huffed. “The way everyone was talking I was expecting sunshine to be coming outta his arse.”

Abbie groaned and laughed. “You're just jealous,” she said and patted his cheek. “It's cute... really it is. You're worrying over nothing.” Thomas arched an eyebrow, his bottom lip jutting out in a small pout. She lowered her voice. “Really. He's not interested in me.”

_Lies!_ a little voice in the back of her head screamed. She was pretty certain that was _interest_ she had been feeling before her phone had started ringing. And not just the _obvious_ one but the way his hands had been slowly creeping under her sleep shirt... hell, he had said _her name_. She was fairly sure if Thomas had called thirty seconds later than he had, she would not have been able to answer the call because her hands would have been too busy gripping either Crane's hair or Crane's ass.

“Is he gay?” Thomas asked incredulously.

“ _No_ ,” Abbie hissed.

“What other reason would there be for him to not be seduced by your womanly charms?” Thomas asked. He gave a small huff. “Not that I want him to be... But you're absolutely certain he's not?”

Abbie rolled her eyes. “Hey, Crane, are you gay?” she asked, turning around on the sofa with her knees in the cushions, looking toward the kitchen. Crane paused in the middle of exiting the kitchen—three coffee mugs in hand—and blinked at her, his face completely expressionless.

“That depends,” he replied after a moment. “Which eccentric billionaire wants to know and is offering me 10% of their wealth?”

Abbie looked at Thomas as Crane handed her one of the mugs. “Told you.”

Crane came around to the front of the sofa as she turned back around to in the seat properly. He handed off one of the remaining mugs to Thomas. “Tea, no sugar, splash of milk,” Crane said lightly. He raised the remaining mug in a slight salute. “If you do not mind, Miss Mills I am going to retire to my quarters for a brief spell. The rain outside has made it hard to stay awake.”

“That's fine. If I need your help I'll come fetch you,” Abbie said sweetly. She looked down at her mug and smiled at the three chamomile blossoms floating lazily on the surface of her tea. She hadn't requested it but she had thought about asking him if he had brought his tea case because she wanted a cup of the chamomile-blueberry blend he made her on rainy days.

Once Crane disappeared up the stairs, Abbie took a sip of her tea the same time Thomas did his. “Urgh... oh my god,” Thomas scoffed, putting his cup down on one of the side tables. “Tastes like someone soaked a sweaty sock in it...” Abbie had to look away and sip her tea to keep from laughing. “I don't like him. I don't like him at all.”

Abbie secretly wondered if Crane actually _did_ toss a sweaty sock in Thomas' tea. She wouldn't put it past him. He liked to purposely put just a trace amount of sugar in Agent Reynolds' coffee—when he liked it very sweet—and weakened it with hot water, so it wouldn't surprise her if Crane had done something purposely wrong to Thomas' tea.

“It's a good thing he's _my_ personal assistant,” Abbie said lightly. “Isn't it?” She suddenly couldn't keep from letting out at least a small laugh.

“You think it's funny,” Thomas said dryly.

“I think it's hilarious,” Abbie grinned. When Thomas sighed in offense, she shook her head. “It's nothing, Thomas, it just means he doesn't like you either. You're not special, he does it to everyone that annoys him. He'll either stop once he gets to know you or it'll get worse.” Thomas stared at her silently. “What?”

“And you _let_ him?” Thomas squeaked.

Abbie shrugged indifferently. “I can't help it if he's petty. I'm just his employer. I can't exactly spritz him with a water bottle and yell 'Bad Kitty' at him.” 

She laughed and took a sip of her tea. Thomas sighed heavily. Abbie rolled her eyes. 

“Look, he's not doing anything to hurt anyone,” Abbie said. “It's not like he's putting milk in someone's coffee when they're lactose intolerant or putting sugar in a diabetics tea... that would be mean and wrong. He's just being petty... which means you probably did something to deserve it. Which, knowing how you get when there's a good looking guy around me, _you actually_ did do something to deserve it.”

“So you think he's good looking?” 

“Oh my God, Thomas just... _stop_ ,” Abbie groaned. “Because I can already tell you... if you try to turn today and tomorrow morning into dick measuring contest you can just go ahead back to New York, 'cause I am not in the mood for it. It's been quiet and peaceful this whole weekend... I don't need you messing it up by being yourself.”

After that Thomas pretty much just sulked the rest of the day, until he was able to secure a ticket back to New York. After a brief promise to call him when she got home and a quick kiss goodbye, Abbie watched his cab leave the villa. At least the fact he was leaving meant she could snuggle up with Crane again.

When she returned went back inside, Crane was leaning against the wet bar, coffee mugs in hand. “It's a shame to see Mister Thomas leaving so soon,” Crane said as he handed her one of the mugs. “He seemed to be such a charming fellow.” 

The scent of lavender wafted from the cup. Sure enough, when she looked down, small lavender buds dotted the surface of her tea. “Mmhmm,” Abbie hummed. She rubbed the back of her neck. “Think you could give me a shoulder rub before going to bed?”

“Is that such a wise decision when you are in the midsts of making amends with your love?” Crane asked.

“We're making amends yes, but... he's not my love,” Abbie said quietly. “He loves me but... I just could never return it. And I doubt I ever will.” She smiled bitterly as she put down her tea. She looked up at Crane as she reached out and traced the edge of his tie. “I wish I could tell you... everything.”

He set his mug on the wet bar next to her and gently took her face in his hands. “I cannot fathom a reason as to why you could not entrust me with every secret of yourself that you wish to divulge.”

Abbie's eyes fluttered closed as his thumb traced the edge of her lower lip. It would be so easy to tell him the truth about the realities of her relationship with Thomas. She _wanted_ to. But, the few lovers she _had_ told always looked at her different afterwards and then they suddenly couldn't get along any more and went their separate ways.

The real question was, did she want to risk never even _having_ Crane as a lover? Or, as with everything else, would he just accept it as one of those things that was part of her?

“When you say you have doubts you could ever return his affections,” Crane said softly. “Does that mean there is even a minute possibility...”

Abbie shook her head. “Trust me, the possibility is non-existent.”

“Good.”

She was about to ask him why it was good. But then his lips brushed hers. It was chaste. Light and sweet. In just that brief moment it felt like every nerve-ending had been put on high alert. Goose pimples dotted her arms, heat scorched through every fibre of her being. It was, in the words of Angelica Schuyler, like Ben Franklin with the key and the kite. 

He pulled away just as quickly as he had kissed her. Abbie opened her eyes. His own eyes were wide with surprise, like she had sucker punched him for daring to kiss her. He gapped for words to say for a moment before settling on a quick, “Forgive me...” and rushing off up the stairs.

Abbie stared after him for a long moment trying to process what had just happened. If he had experienced even a tiny bit of what she had felt from a something that could barely qualify as being a kiss... she couldn't blame him for being terrified. If she had felt all that in just that brief moment... she could only imagine what more would feel like.


	6. Scandalous Shenanigans

_All flights out of LAX have been cancelled due to weather. May I plz return to the villa?_

Abbie groaned in frustration and rubbed the back of her neck. Crane would probably be in his room until they left—or at least only coming out when he knew she was in her room. She clicked on the television to check the weather. It was mostly to make sure Thomas wasn't just trying to get out of going back to New York sooner than he had anticipated.

Apparently there was a hurricane making its way to shore. The eye of the storm was nowhere near them but they would be getting a the brunt of outer bands of it. That would certainly explain flight cancellations. **Can you behave?** she sent back.

_I will turn my charm up to full capacity to win over your assistant if I MUST._

**U must... if he comes out of his room.**

She left her phone on the wet bar and made her way up the stairs to lightly knock on Crane's door. “Crane... there's a hurricane coming in. All the flights out of LAX were cancelled... so Thomas has to come back.” _Silence_. “He promised to behave himself.” She knocked again. “Crane?”

Part of her wanted to put his mind at ease by saying _It was just a kiss... no big deal. Let's laugh about it so we can pretend nothing will change_. She was pretty sure that would just make things worse. Abbie rested her forehead against the door. “Whatever I did wrong... I'm sorry,” she said quietly then wondered if anyone other than herself had heard it.

When Thomas arrived again, she quickly fed him a couple shots of tequila to silence his complaining about the traffic. The man could bitch with the best of them, but once intoxicated his face would flush and he giggled like a school girl getting asked to prom. It was actually one of his redeeming qualities. Abbie knew too many people—men and women—who turned into nasty drunks.

It was moments like this, when his guard was completely down and she got to see him for who he _really_ was, that Abbie could have maybe fallen in love with him once upon a time if they had met before she had to treat everything in her life like it was business.

She was a firm believer you could judge a person by their behaviour when intoxicated. With Thomas, he became giggly, his accent almost completely disappeared and sounded more like he was from Jersey than Scotland. Two more shots and the lightweight was getting drowsy which meant it was time to put him to bed. All she had to do was take his hand to lure him up stairs.

He of course tried everything in his power to get her out of her clothes the entire way to the bedroom. He only succeeded in getting his giggly ass pushed down onto her bed and she gave him a quick kiss on the lips when he gave her a flirtatious smile and waggled his brows suggestively. “Pretty please?” he asked, brushing her hair away from her face.

Abbie shook her head. “You're drunk, Thomas, so no.” She was vaguely aware of hearing Crane's door open then close. 

“You... _got me_ drunk, you... naughty naughty girl.” He searched her face then trailed his knuckles along her jaw. “I wish you could see how much I love you.”

“I do see it, Thomas,” Abbie said softly. “Trust me, I see it.” She patted his chest. “Now go to sleep.”

His eyes drifted closed and he nodded. “M'kay.”

She waited until he was softly snoring to climb off of the bed. After making sure he was properly curled around her pillow, Abbie changed into her sleep shirt and tiptoed out of the room.

  
#  


Ichabod had heard her. It was hard to _not_ hear her when he had been sitting on the floor, with his back against the door. When he heard her move away from the door, he let his head fall back against it with a light _thud_.

Apparently, in addition to being talented at making women angry, he was also very talented at making them upset. And when Thomas arrived at the villa roughly an hour later—the other man and Abbie giggling in her room a short while after—Ichabod added 'driving women he cares for into the arms of other men with very little effort.'

He stared at the wall between his and Abbie's suite as the giggling subsided and was replaced by... other noises. Ichabod shook his head, gathered a few things, and made his way down stairs. Private matters were meant to be private and he was going to make certain it stayed that way. He pulled his knees to his chest, sitting on the floor in front of the sitting room sofa, watching the storms brewing in the distance as he gave himself a much needed pedicure.

He hadn't even been sitting there for ten minutes when his ears pricked at the sound of a door opening and closing. He couldn't help but snort in amusement. _That hadn't lasted long_ , he mused to himself.

“Hey.” Abbie tiptoed around the sofa and peered at him curiously. She was in the same sleep shirt she had been sleeping in, the one that attempted to swallow her whole. “I heard you leave your room and—are you painting your toenails black?”

When he looked up as her tone turned incredulous, her head was tilted and she had wrinkled her nose. He brushed his hair away from his face and replied matter-of-factly, “I shall have you know this is Scandalous Shenanigans, thank you. It's more of a navy blue... Last week it was Too Yacht to Handle.”

She perched herself on the arm of the sofa closest to her. Abbie caught the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth to unsuccessfully hide a grin. She eased down onto the furthest cushion. “You know what... I'm not going to be able to look at you, ever again, without wondering what colour your toenails are.”

Ichabod shrugged indifferently. “It's usually whichever one Betsy leaves unguarded. I find the entire process quite calming.” His eyes flickered to her tiny feet, toes flexing and unflexing against the floor tiles. She scooted a little bit closer. “I can do yours if you would like,” he offered as he finished the last toenail.

He looked away for a brief moment when the thunder outside made him jump. Abbie's knee brushed his shoulder. “Do I get a pedicure too?” she asked, giving him an adorably coy smile as she brushed a stray bit of hair away from his forehead. When she batted her lashes playfully he sighed softly in surrender.

“If the lady desires a pedicure, then a pedicure she shall have,” Ichabod replied primly. Although as soon as he started to move to see to his task, he realized it would probably prove difficult considering his own were still drying. After a moment he turned and rested his back against the coffee table and put his feet on the sofa cushions, on either side of Abbie's knees. He pulled her feet toward him and rested them on his stomach as he shifted around to get comfortable.

“Massages, pedicures, maker of cappuccinos... Is there anything you can't do?” Abbie asked once he cradled her foot in his hand.

“There's plenty I cannot do,” Ichabod said. “Most of it relates directly to technology.” Abbie laughed softly. “You laugh but I have managed to render laptops useless just by trying to turn them off.” He looked up at her. “And yes, that was plural... I've done it more than once. And do not get me started on the tablets at the office, I think I've already ruined three of them.”

“You've only been there two weeks!” Abbie's eyes danced with joviality as a smile spread across her face. 

“Clearly, you underestimate my inability to cope with electrical devices.”

“Well I didn't hire you for your computer skills,” Abbie said softly and leaned back in the sofa. They sat in companionable silence as though everything from earlier had been sat aside and forgotten. It was Abbie who finally punctuated the quiet. “You have big hands.”

“No, I do not,” Ichabod replied. “ _You_ have tiny _feet_.” He watched as she gently trailed her fingers over the top of his feet before trying to encircle his ankles with her small hands. It was suddenly becoming quite taxing to pay attention to what he was doing. He felt like he needed to think of something to talk about in order to distract him from the sensations her hands were causing. “If we are stuck here a few days it is no worry... There was a minimum of 8 days stay that you are paid up for.”

Abbie hummed non-committally. “I hope they allow flights out tomorrow. I don't think I could handle several days of Thomas. But _we_ could stay.”

Ichabod chuckled softly. “And what could _we_ possibly find to entertain ourselves?” His eyes drifted to where Abbie's sleep shirt puddled between her thighs. He was having no issues at all thinking of the imaginable possibilities if they stayed the entirety of their allotted time.

“I think you know what we could do,” Abbie purred. It could have just been his imagination running wild but he could almost swear she shifted just enough to spread her legs just a little further apart. He could practically hear Betsy obnoxiously screaming 'That's an invitation you moron!' in the back of his mind.

He moistened his lips as he recalled the very brief kiss he had bestowed upon her earlier. He wished he could say it had been a long time since he had felt such an intensity in something so small and seemingly insignificant. Truth be known, the raw magnetic connection was not something he had ever experienced before. He had felt drawn to her mouth, powerless to resist the pull.

Even now his eyes were continually swayed by her lips. 

Her head fell back and she moaned softly when he gently massaged her foot. It affected him in a way he probably should have expected, given the way he knew himself to react to something as simple as her breath on his neck.

“I'm gonna need you to do that to my shoulders when you get done down there,” Abbie said, her voice a low and sultry murmur. She sighed softly when he set her foot against his stomach again and took the other in his hands. “We could go swimming.”

Ichabod glanced up at her questioningly. She gazed down at him with lustful eyes, a small smile on her lips.

“You've called me by my name a few times already and I told you... I would pester you about the swimwear,” she purred. “So when do I get to see it?”

“Miss Mills,” Ichabod said with faux sternness. “My swimwear is hardly appropriate in the presence of a lady such as yourself.”

She hummed softly. “So you _do_ swim naked.”

Ichabod felt his face warm. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

Abbie chuckled. “So when do I get to see your swimwear?”

He looked up at her, eyebrow arched. “As soon as Mister Thomas is not an issue to contend with... and I see to some _personal_ matters.” Abbie startled slightly, as though she had just been doused with cold water. 

She nodded lightly. “Yeah, I have to deal with Thomas and you have to speak to Sally, right?” All of the flirtatiousness left her voice and was replaced with her crisp business tone. 

Ichabod frowned. “Why would I need to speak to Sally?” he asked, confused. 

Abbie tilted her head and blinked at him curiously. “Aren't you and her sort of... talking or... dating?”

Ichabod couldn't help but start laughing as he shook his head. “No...”

  
#  


Just when Abbie thought she had nailed down all the details on the inner workings of Crane's head... he surprised her. Toenail painting aside, she just felt like she couldn't figure him out as easy as she seemed to with everyone else. As soon as he had mentioned personal matters, her mind had immediately rationalized that the reason he had not thoroughly kissed her earlier was because he had realized he needed to end things with Sally.

But yet he sat before her on the floor, laughing like the idea of him and Sally was the most ludicrous idea known to mankind. Despite her own confusion, she couldn't help but notice the way his eyes practically sparkled when he laughed. He didn't have a loud and boisterous laugh, but a low one, just above what could be constituted as a chuckle.

“I am _hardly_ Miss Sally's type, Miss Mills,” he said, amusement in his voice.

“If you think it's because you're a tall white dude... I can tell you, I've seen pictures of Izzy's father...” Abbie started, her voice trailed off when Ichabod gently shook his head.

“Not so much _that_ Miss Mills than it is the fact I am, in fact, a _man_ ,” Ichabod responded. 

It took her a second, but her brain finally put all the pieces of the puzzle together. “Oh shit,” Abbie laughed. “I keep forgetting... because she doesn't really... talk about her dating life and all that.” That certainly explained Sally's eagerness to stay at the office, instead of venturing out for lunch, while Betsy had been doing the fittings. “So... all that with her and your sister this weekend...?”

“Modern courting in action,” Crane said . “Betsy is wanting to do everything 'absolutely proper' because she said, when she looked upon Sally's face, she heard a choir of angels singing... She asked Izzy's permission and for Sally's auntie's blessings to court her. There is proper accompaniment when they go on outings. And, Betsy is already debating taking Sally and Izzy to London to meet our parents.”

“Then what personal matters did you need to see to?” Abbie asked curiously.

Crane sighed lightly. “My wife is still wishing to argue about details of the divorce. Or rather her proxy is. I had hoped to speak to _her_ directly to make certain the demands are actually hers.” His fingers danced over Abbie's foot, brushing away dust from filing her toenails. “Things could become quite... foul... if she truly is wishing to pursue the path her proxy is suggesting.”

Abbie smiled wickedly. “I can throw my best lawyers at them,” she offered. “I have like a fleet of lawyers at my disposal. I could put them on your side and I guarantee everything would go your way.” He shook his head mutely. “Come on, it's the least I can do with everything you do for me.”

“I do not do all the extras I do for you in hopes of receiving special gifts, Miss Mills,” Crane said quietly. 

“Then why _do_ you do them?” Abbie asked. 

A small smile appeared on his lips and he glanced up at her. “Because I _want to_.”

Abbie shook her head. “You can't... No one... Seriously? I just offered you the equivalent of well over $12000 an hour for however long it took to get your wife to agree to the divorce _as a thank you_ for everything you do and... you said no?”

Ichabod got a thoughtful look for a moment then nodded. “Yes, I did.” 

“You're rude,” Abbie huffed but couldn't keep a smirk off of her lips. “And _ungrateful_.” 

When Crane looked up at her, there was panic in his eyes, but it flittered away and a blush touched the apples of his cheeks as he looked back down at her feet. “Do you wish to have Scandalous Shenanigans as well? I also have a delightfully bright green called Lime After Lime in my possession.”

Oh she wanted to have some scandalous shenanigans all right. Especially when he set to giving the current foot the same attentive massage he had given the other. _Sweet Jesus_ , Abbie couldn't help but think. If his hands were _this_ talented at 'platonic' massages, she could only imagine how skilled they would be at other, non-platonic, things.

She lightly touched the polish on his toenails. When she realized they were dry she tickled the bottom of one of his feet. Crane gave her a scolding look as his foot jerked away from her hand instinctively. He curled his knees closer to his chest, resting his feet on the edge of the sofa so it was harder for her to reach the sensitive underside. _That hadn't been what she was hoping for_. After a moment he shifted uncomfortably and sat up straighter so he could cross his legs in front of him.

_Perfect_.

She didn't want to say she had just played him like a fiddle... but... she had.

In one quick motion, Abbie slipped onto Crane's lap. He blinked at her in surprise. “I take it you desire scandalous shenanigans,” he quipped.

“That depends... what _kind_ of scandalous shenanigans are we talking?” Abbie asked. 

She grinned when his eyes darkened and his hands rested on her hips. “I've been told I can get quite scandalous when I put my mind to it.”

“This, from the guy that won't even kiss me properly?” Abbie gave a tiny, offended huff. “I find it hard to believe...”

Much to her surprise, Ichabod leaned in close... very close. So close she could see the various flicks of blue that made up his eye colour. “Do not misunderstand my intentions, Miss Mills, it is just... I know and confirmed earlier this evening, that should I kiss you properly... I would be sorely tempted to make certain I did other things just as properly soon after.”

Abbie didn't know what to go for first. She gripped his arms, then fisted the front of his shirt before finally settling on his hair. One of Crane's hands lightly pressed into the middle of her back while the other drifted down to grip the swell of her ass, pulling her against the obvious indicator that he was, in fact, very interested in her.

“You say that like it's a bad thing...” Abbie said softly.

“Oh it indeed would be a very bad thing at this juxtaposition,” Ichabod replied.

They both jumped in surprise when lightning struck nearby, letting out a loud _pop_. Seconds later the lights in the house went out, leaving them in the cover of darkness as the winds howled outside. Crane rested his forehead against hers, his breath was hot against her lips as he lightly trembled.

“Ichabod...” Abbie said quietly. 

“Yes?”

“Why would it be a very bad thing?”

“I have to finalize my divorce,” he said, sounding more like he was reminding himself that her. “And it despite your claim that you shall never reciprocate his affections... you are still in a relationship with Mister Thomas...”

Abbie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was officially time to see if the truth would make them or break them. “He's a prostitute, Crane,” she interrupted. She opened her eyes and wished there was at least a little bit of light so she could gauge his reaction. “Paid Companion... gigolo... whore... whatever you want to call him 'cause he frankly doesn't give a damn what he's called. I pay him to... date me. I guess you could say.”

Silence spread between them for a long moment. She wished she could take it back. She didn't know what she would do if he started looking at her like the others had. “Oh,” Crane said, voice pitching in surprise. “Well that certainly explains a few things.”

Abbie blinked. “What?”

“I was starting to fear he was involved in some illegal trades that he refused to let you in on and _that_ was why you never mentioned his line of work,” Crane replied.

“It... doesn't bother you?” Abbie asked carefully.

“Abbie...” he said, his voice low and soft. “Is he being forced into it?”

“No. He... started doing it in college to make ends meet and... hasn't wanted to stop.”

“Does he make certain he stays healthy?”

“Yeah... J makes all the ladies and gents get checked at least every six months,” Abbie replied then felt like putting a boot in her mouth for unintentionally outing J as a pimp.

“I take it J acts as Thomas' manager and representative?”

“Yeah. Well, J is more of a _scheduler_ and does all the pre-emptive details like making sure the client doesn't have any kind of criminal charges from abuse or anything involving violence, all the clients have to have proof of a clean health screening... J sets up the date and all that fun stuff. Runs the website...” Abbie said. “I was actually very surprised considering I had come from working as a police officer and had all these ideas about what it was... only to be shown I was wrong. At least, as far as... what Thomas does.”

“Then why would his line of work bother me?” Crane asked. “You do realize I am from England... where it is actually a legal and legitimate profession?”

She hadn't thought about that. “You don't think any less of _me_ for it, do you?” she asked quietly.

“Of course not,” Crane replied. “I am certain you had your reasons and... despite the fact I am rather curious about them, those reasons none of my business.”

Abbie smiled lightly and touched his cheek as lightning temporarily illuminated the room again. “How are you so perfect?”

“I am far from perfect,” he said quietly, putting his hand over hers. He turned his face enough to press a kiss to the palm of her hand. He lifted her off of his lap and settled her on the sofa. Crane took her hands in both of his and sighed lightly. “All I wish for, in gratitude for all I do, is your happiness.”

Abbie leaned forward and hugged him fiercely, her face nuzzling his neck. “I can do that.”

  
#  


Ichabod awoke with a start and stared up at the ceiling. It had been a while since he had dreamt of the past... days that haunted him and he tried to push away. One day in particular, whilst he and Betsy had served on the same special operations team, had been plaguing him as of late. But he would deal with it once he had the time and was in the right place mentally.

He was pulled out of his reflections by the feel of a rough tongue between his toes. With a grumble he jerked his foot away. “Quite enough of that Mr. Waffles,” he muttered to the cream coloured kitten perched at the foot of the bed—the latest of Betsy's rescues. This particular one had been collected by young Miss Izzy during an outing whilst he had been in LA.

As if in cue, the child let out a high pitched squeal of laughter from somewhere in the flat followed by a cheery, “Mommy, the kitty lick my ear!” followed by the sound of both Betsy and Sally giggling out a “shhh.”

The trio had been huddled up in front of the television sleeping when he had arrived home the night before, start screen to Lilo and Stitch on the screen. 

Ichabod pulled himself out of the bed and tugged his robe on over his sleep clothes. Mr. Waffles pounced on the robe tie with all the fury his tiny kitten form possessed before Ichabod pulled it away and secured his robe closed.

He picked up the kitten, holding it close to his chest as he meandered into the main room of the flat. Betsy, Sally, and Izzy were in the kitchen, the older women were busy cooking breakfast while Izzy sat on the counter hugging a cat that was bigger than she was to her chest.

“Good morrow, ladies,” Ichabod greeted, then gave them a slight bow when they turned toward him.

“And good morrow to _you_ Mister Crane,” Sally chimed with a grin. “I am _so glad_ you are back. I thought Abbie was gonna throw Thomas out the damn window yesterday when he got her lunch order wrong. Which is very disconcerting considering she _knows_ none of her windows open.”

Ichabod dashed to his room to retrieve his planner and returned, his eyes scanning his notes. “Did he remember to bring her a chocolate pastry to have with her morning cappuccino?”

“Yes, actually he did. He tried to follow your notes to the letter.” Ichabod raised an eyebrow. “He did! I swear.”

Ichabod closed the planner. “ _Tried_ implies there was something he did not, in fact, follow to the letter.”

Sally looked away. “He may have been a little late with it,” she said candidly. “Like... half an hour late with... everything. All day.”

“And I take it, Agent Reynolds paid his customary visit at 9am?” Ichabod asked. Sally nodded. Ichabod rolled his eyes and sighed. “No wonder she was so agitated. Never fear, I shall be returning this morning.”

“You better be,” Sally teased. “Oh and that chocolate pastry... does a doughnut count?”

“No it does not,” Ichabod said sternly. “ _Unless_ it was a chocolate cake doughnut with chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles.” Sally shook her head. “Urgh. Was he able to get anything right?”

“You would have to ask Abbie.”

Ichabod placed Mr. Waffles on the counter and the kitten scampered to Betsy and attacked her hand when she tapped her fingers on the top. “I shall most assuredly must make amends for being absent for two days,” he said quietly. 

“So how did the confrontation with Mr and Mrs Assface go?” Betsy asked. Sally gave her a warning look. “Hey, we agreed I could say ass and damn because they are in the Bible. And if you saw them you would agree that they... resemble donkeys.”

Sally eyed Betsy for a moment then nodded. “Okay. As long as you mean donkey's we're good.”

The two women clasped hands and leaned into each other to nuzzle their noses and steal a quick peck. “No, Mommy,” Izzy scolded. “You're not allowed to give kisses yet.”

“Yes _ma'am_ ,” Sally replied with playful seriousness, pulling back from Betsy. “Are you scared Miss Betsy is going to get all your kisses, termite? 'Cause Mommy has plenty to go around...” She took Izzy's face in her hands and smothered the now giggling child with kisses.

“Things went as expected...” Ichabod replied quietly, eyeing the cabinets. “So everything is still up in the air.” He looked at Betsy. “We you still have that waffle iron, Betsy?”

“Yeah why?”

“I need it for work.” 

Betsy narrowed her eyes. “It better come back this afternoon... I will not be pleased if it plays a disappearing act like my kettle.”

“Betsy...” Ichabod sighed. “You have five kettles you never use... that are exactly like the one I took to the office.”

“But that was the first one I ever bought on my own,” Betsy said sadly. “It's special.”

“I will return it, promise,” Ichabod said.

“Fine take it.”

Ichabod immediately bound into action gathering all the supplies he would need.

  
#  


Abbie took the little yellow cards from Diane with a light smile. It was a dose of anonymous comment cards the employees would leave on things that could use improvement around the warehouse, offices, and production floor. “Thanks Diane. These cards are my greatest source of amusement right now.”

“Don't mention it, Miss Abbie,” Diane laughed. “I just thought you might enjoy this latest batch. They're hilarious.”

“I don't doubt it,” Abbie said as she pressed the button to hail the elevator. It dinged and the doors slid open. She stepped inside and hit the button for the corporate floor. When the doors closed she looked down at the first of the cards Diane had given her. It was, of course, a complaint about the 'corporate level' as was on par for the cards Diane had been giving her as of late. Persons involved in the conflict: Ms. Mills + 'Crane' (like the bird right?)

It was the 'Details' that made Abbie snort. _I feel personally victimized by the sex eyes those two give each other. HOW ARE THEY NOT BANGING?_

She shuffled that card to the back of the stack and read the next one. Corporate Level. Persons involved: Ms Mills and assistant. Details: We took a poll. Entire dept thinks she should sit on his face.

The next couple of cards were basic 'more comfortable seats in break room' and 'easier way to check vacation/sick day eligibility'. She was about to move on to the next card when the doors opened onto her floor. Sally looked like she had just arrived and was taking an artillery of lotions and hand sanitizers from her purse to keep behind the reception desk.

“Good morning Miss Abbie,” Sally greeted sweetly.

“Good morning, Sally,” Abbie returned. “Did Crane make it back from the city yet?”

“I just got here so I don't know,” Sally replied, disappearing behind the large workstation to hide her purse.

“What use are you if you're not going to spy on him for me while you're shacking up with his sister?” Abbie teased.

Sally laughed as she stood upright again. “Well... his sister keeps me _busy_.”

Abbie chuckled, stepped into her office, and closed the doors behind her. Her eyes widened as she saw what was waiting for her on her desk. A big, still steaming, cappuccino... and chocolate waffle, dusted with powdered sugar, topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, chocolate sprinkles, and topped with a fat chocolate dipped strawberry.

She tip toed past the opened beverage closet door to make sure it was empty. Once confirmed, she tossed the comment cards over her shoulder, squealed happily, and hurried to her desk to indulge in her morning treat. 

It was exactly what she had needed after the past few days, having to deal with Thomas _trying_ to do all the things Crane did. Not to mention she had cut the stay in L.A. short after all because mother nature reared her ugly, biological head and threw Abbie into a hormonal tailspin.

Thankfully she managed to keep it together until she got home—despite the very silent flight back because she had both Crane and Thomas with her. Her and Bastet stayed up all night cuddling and watching sappy chick flicks like all the Resident Evil movies. There may have also been wine involved. Bastet had happily licked away Abbie's tears when she started crying, after googling Milla Jovovich's height. 

Abbie had woke up to her alarm clock. Bastet was asleep on her face and two empty bottles of chocolate wine were on her coffee table. And that was only her first day home, without reporting to the office. Of course, showing up at the office with the chocolate wine hangover wasn't exactly a wonderful start to her day. Crane had gone to NYC to try and sort out his divorce issues. Thomas, bless him, had offered to fill in until he returned—which in hindsight, Abbie probably should not have permitted because it made an already stressful situation even more stressful. The second and third day of Crane's absence wasn't much better.

But now he was back and she had a sinfully sweet breakfast to enjoy. Abbie quickly cut off one of the four sections of the waffle. Not wanting to waste time to conform to proper manners, she just picked up the quarter and shoved as much of it into her mouth as possible. A soft moan escaped her throat. It was still nice and warm and the chocolate sauce had apparently been heated up too.

It was so delicious her toes curled.

The phone intercom beeped and Abbie pressed the button. “What? I am in a very important meeting,” Abbie said, her mouth still mostly full while trying to dab excess whipped cream and chocolate sauce off her lips.

“With _who_?” Sally squeaked with amusement. “You have nothing on your appointment book before nine and Crane is scrubbing a waffle iron in the maintenance break room.”

“My breakfast. What do you want?” Abbie asked.

“Florida State University is on the phone and would like to speak to you about your darling assistant.”

Almost immediately it felt like a lead weight dropped into the pit of her stomach. “Florida?” Abbie asked. She swallowed hard when Sally confirmed. “Umm... tell them to... call back after nine... I'm kind of just getting settled in so...”

“But you're in meetings _all day_ after nine,” Sally said pointedly.

“ _After_ nine, Sally,” Abbie stated again.

“ _Okay_. Because you know they'll ask... what _would_ be a better time?”

“I'm not the one that keeps up with my schedule, Sally. Take a look and see,” Abbie said in a hushed tone.

“ _Okay_ ,” Sally replied, Abbie could hear the disapproving tone in her voice.

_Florida_? Abbie couldn't help but think. Why would he put in at a university in _Florida_? Why would he want to go to Florida? Even people _in_ Florida didn't want to go to Florida.

Shit. Now what was she going to do? Had she just cost him a chance to get a teaching position? What if he actually had wanted to go to Florida?

Her head jerked up when a soft knock sounded at the door. A few seconds later, the door eased open and Crane peeked in. A smile involuntarily spread over Abbie's face. “Has my absence been forgiven?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said softly. She daintily cut off a small corner of her waffle as he eased into the office and closed the door behind him. She watched him cross to the beverage closet. A few minutes later he emerged, coffee mug in hand and settled into one of the seats across from her. “How did New York go?”

“Terribly, thank you for asking,” he said softly.

Abbie wrinkled her nose. “She still won't talk to you?”

Crane shrugged indifferently. “I am not entirely certain she even knows I have been trying to contact her. Her lawyer and her proxy have a tendency to try and keep her in the dark over things. Which is why I was trying to speak to her directly.”

“My offer still stands,” Abbie said. 

He shook his head lightly. “It is not my wife that I am having issues with. It is my former friend, which is her current lover. He is the one making things very difficult and refusing to let me speak to her.”

“What about me?” Abbie asked. Crane arched an eyebrow. “Do you think he would let her talk to _me _?”__

__Again, he shook his head. “I would never ask that of you, Miss Abigail.”_ _

__She opened her mouth to speak but the intercom beeped again. With a frown, Abbie reached over and pressed the button. “Yes, Sally?” she asked as sweetly as possible._ _

__“Thomas is here,” she said flatly._ _

__Abbie pursed her lips. “Tell him Crane is back so... I don't need his help today.”_ _

__“Actually... he wanted to speak to Crane,” Sally said slowly._ _

__Abbie looked up at Crane. He seemed as perplexed by the request as she. Crane gave an indifferent shrug. “I am not opposed,” he commented._ _

__“Send him in,” Abbie said._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The polish colours used in this chapter are all available through the China Glaze brand.


	7. Ghosts of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod lets Thomas know just how much he adores him.  
> Abbie schemes  
> Parents are met  
> and a ghost from Abbie's past comes back to haunt her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Abbie's dress: http://www.fashiondivadesign.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/4-Alessandro-Angelozzi-Couture-2013-640x914.jpg

Nothing could draw out time better than cool contemplation. Silence turned deafening. A minute stretched out for aeons. Empires could rise and fall in the amount of time that seemed to pass in a solitary minute of consideration of a proposal. Which was precisely why Ichabod was taking his time making Miss Mills' blueberry chamomile tea.

Thomas had a query. Ichabod was taking his time responding.

Thomas was getting impatient. Ichabod was drawing it out even longer.

Ichabod fished a litre bottle of water from under the cabinet and carefully poured it into the electric kettle. So far he was at nearly half an hour of drawing it out. Once he turned on the kettle, he turned toward the younger man and clasped his hands behind his back. “You have yet to tell me precisely _why_ you wish for me to teach you to be a _proper_ gentleman.”

“I've already told you three times... I think it'd be good for business. The ladies obviously eat it up. My competition is at the same level as I am. I figure, learn to do it properly and...” he gave a devilish smirk. “I can make my clients the envy of every man and woman in the room.”

Ichabod tried to suppress a scoff. “First of all, one does not become a gentleman because of the potential of personal gain. Whilst I cannot argue your desire to assure your companion is the envy of all... the hopes that it will drive up your business seems quite selfish.”

Thomas tilted his chin up. “If Abbie has taught me one thing, it's that with entrepreneurs, business always comes first.”

A small smirk pulled at Ichabod's lips. He turned back toward the cabinet and opened his tea case. Ichabod carefully measured out half a teaspoon of Earl Grey and a quarter of a teaspoon of green tea and poured them into a silk tea bag. He then added a generous helping of chamomile blossoms and dried blueberries before cinching the bag closed right as the kettle clicked off to indicate the water was ready.

He carefully poured the water into Miss Mills' favourite over-sized mug and dropped the silk bag into the water. He placed a saucer atop the cup. When Thomas made to speak again, Ichabod held up a silencing finger then set a timer that was atop the cabinet. Finally Ichabod turned back toward the young man.

“I dare not argue your logic,” he said. “However, you have not given me your _actual_ reason for wanting to learn.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder then reached back to close the door to the beverage closet. “Because, _eventually_ you will go away like all the others. The least I can do is make sure Abbie stays content once you're gone.”

“And who is to say I _plan_ to leave?” Ichabod asked.

Thomas snorted indignantly. “Because guess who she calls when she gets reminded you only signed on until you can get a new teaching post.”

“I have no plans of vacating my current position,” Ichabod said. “Lest a very particular posting comes through which would keep me here in Sleepy Hollow. Which, it would still permit me to continue my duties with Miss Mills.” Ichabod arched a brow. “Unless... you're deluded enough to think I may _steal_ her affections from you.”

“Deluded?” Thomas scoffed.

The timer went off and Ichabod turned back to the tea. He removed the saucer then set the cup upon it before grasping the ties of the bag, swirling it around in the water a few times before removing it, and setting it in an empty cup nearby. Ichabod brought the cup close to his face and lightly inhales the aroma before taking a small taste. He smiled lightly and set the cup back down on the saucer. “ _Perfect_.”

Ichabod took his attention back to his tea case and picked out three chamomile blossoms and dropped them on the surface of the tea. He then dropped in two dried blueberries. Whilst tidying up the cup and saucer, he stated, “If your primary concern is that I will _steal_ Miss Mills' affections from you, I assure you that you have nothing to worry about, Mister Thomas.”

He set the timer again and turned toward Thomas as the younger man's lips pulled into a cocky smirk. It quickly disappeared when Ichabod continued. “I find that Miss Mills is quite capable of making her own decisions, especially those concerning her heart. So I would most assuredly would not be stealing her _from_ you. She would be entirely willing and giving herself freely.”

Thomas sucked in a breath as Ichabod smile lightly and fluttered his lashes in a manner that, no doubt, made Thomas want to slug him in the face. Thomas' jaw clenched as he ground his teeth, wanting to lash out in some manner. When the younger man opened his mouth to speak, Ichabod held up a finger to silence him then pointed to the timer as it went off. 

Ichabod picked up the cup of tea. “But, I suppose it _is_ only fair that I inform you... My ex-wife was engaged to my best friend when we met.” He blew gently on the surface of the tea then took a cautious sip to give it one final seal of approval. He lowered the cup, closing his eyes to savour the delicate melding of chamomile, blueberries, and the teas. With a soft sigh, he gave Thomas an empathetic smile. “Now, ponder this Mister Thomas, I showed very little remorse over, quote, _stealing_ my best friend's fiancée... Imagine how little I will show toward someone I do not care for in the least.”

He opened the door and strode out purposely, leaving a dumbfounded Thomas behind. “Your tea, madam,” Ichabod said softly as he set the cup down next to the hand that was not occupied with rubbing the back of her neck. Miss Mills blinked at the cup, as he perched on the corner of her desk.

“How did... I didn't...” She smiled up at him affectionately. “Thank you, Ichabod.” Miss Mills glanced toward the beverage closet. “What does he want?”

“He would like for me to teach him to be a proper gentleman,” Ichabod replied, leaning in and keeping his voice low enough for just the two of them. Both of her eyebrows arched in interest. “It would entail his presence around the office so I shall only accept if that is acceptable to you, Miss Mills. But I warn you, teaching him the bare basics could drag on for weeks. He is, as Miss Sally puts it, a hot mess. And don't get me started on his inherent chauvinism.”

“You don't have to do it if you don't want to,” Miss Mills said. “But I don't mind if you do. Besides, you know I don't have... romantic feelings for him. All I ask is no Pretty Woman montages. He's always wanted to have one. I just don't think I could take him waltzing up in here in a cute polka dot dress. Dude can rock a dress and heels and I don't feel like feeling inadequate.”

Ichabod laughed lightly and took Miss Mills' hand, then kissed it. “Then it is agreed, no polka dot dresses.” He released her hand and returned to the beverage closet. “I have given it thought, Mister Thomas, and I have decided I shall teach you what you wish to learn.” Thomas went to speak and Ichabod silenced him immediately. “Under one very important condition...”

“What's that then?” Thomas asked.

Ichabod stepped close to him and lowered his voice. “Stop using that fake, and quite frankly, incredibly revolting Scottish accent. Or at least learn to do one properly.” He pulled back, Thomas' expression was stunned and he was gapping for words. “You may fool Americans with it. But, from a man with a father who _is_ Scottish and spent his childhood between London, Sleepy Hollow, and Edinburgh... _you need to stop_.”

Thomas looked insulted. “I put a lot of work into mastering my accent.”

“You sound like a Welshman choking on an Irish ferret,” Ichabod said briskly. “I do not tolerate sloppiness. So either do a better job or start using a British accent. It's much easier to immolate and you can easily pass it off as just being a well-educated American as opposed to coming up with a believable backstory for yourself.”

“That doesn't seem like a very gentlemanly thing to say,” Thomas huffed.

“No, the gentlemanly thing to do is to be honest with you _in private_. The ungentlemanly thing would have been to say it where everyone could hear it and cause you embarrassment. Besides, what do _you_ know of being an actual gentleman? You've come to _me_ for guidance.” Ichabod looked Thomas straight in the eyes, making the young man squirm uncomfortably. “Do we have an accord, Mister Thomas?”

“All right, fine,” Thomas sighed, his accent becoming a mild Jersey one. “But what about Abbie?”

Ichabod closed his eyes and nodded. “I fear she may already know or suspect you are not actually a Scotsman. It is not my place to expose your trickery, as it would come off as my trying to better myself in her eyes as it is known the two of us share a very strong attraction and bond to one another. So the sooner you are honest with her, the better. Because, I assure you, I am _not above_ telling her if I feel you are continuing to deceive her.” He pulled back and looked Thomas over. “And when was the last time you had something other than your suit coat tailored?”

“Are you going to be picky about everything I do, now?” Thomas asked.

“Of course I am,” Ichabod replied. “Precision and perfection is the lifeblood of a gentleman. Is that not what you want to learn? Because being a gentleman is not something one does for play acting, Mister Thomas. When one decides to become a gentleman, it is a complete lifestyle change, and is not for the faint of heart or the fickle. And a faker can be spotted very easily. And it begins with your wardrobe.”

Thomas snorted and chuckled. “Is that why you don't like me then? You knew I was a fake.”

Ichabod scoffed. “I don't like you because you're a lying and manipulative ass. I couldn't care whether or not you wish to embarrass yourself by merely pretending to be a gentleman... and a poor one at that. Trust me, when you and I are side by side it's as obvious as placing a cheap, Chinese knock off from a flea market next to a real Louis Vuitton. I have met and conversed with _courtiers_ that accompany princesses and queens, and dukes... and they make _me_ feel inferior, so imagine what you would be like amongst them.”

Thomas nodded lightly. “Ouch. Please, by all means, tell me precisely how you feel. Don't be nice on account of being afraid you'll hurt my feelings,” he dead panned. “Okay, just so there is no misunderstanding, I basically just signed up for you talking shit about me constantly?”

“Only until I feel you have learned enough to be on your own,” Ichabod said, retrieving a bottle of water from under the counter. He handed it over to Thomas. “But rest assured the insults will always be to your face, with a smile, and whilst it is only the two of us. Anything done in public will be kept civil and passed off as a joke between two friends.” 

He looked Thomas over again and sighed. “I am wondering how many favours I will owe Betsy once all is said and done... Once you leave here, I will need you to go to some sort of suit shop—I do not care if it's a brand, Jos A. Bank, or a warehouse—to get five trousers, five shirts, five waistcoats, five coats, and five ties. Colours are completely up to you but please refrain from anything velvet, polyester, tacky, or ostentatious. Additionally you need at least two pair of casual slacks and at least two polo style shirts. All of that will need to be one size larger than what fits comfortably. At least seven pair of decent trouser socks and at least two pair of loafers. And at least two decent belts, one in black and one in brown. Once you have _that_ we can begin. In the meantime I shall be grovelling at my sister's feet to barter her services.”

“Is that it?” Thomas asked, confusion on his face. “Go buy some clothes?”

“Obviously you were not paying attention. That is what you need in order to get _started_.” Ichabod bowed his head lightly. “You are dismissed, Mister Thomas.”

  
#  


Abbie tiptoed out of her office, looking around cautiously to make sure neither Crane nor his newly acquired mini-me was around. All she could see was Sally, behind the reception desk, and Betsy reaching over said desk to stroke Sally's nose while the two of them grinned cutely and talked quietly. “Have the guys left to get lunch?” Abbie asked.

Both Sally and Betsy cleared their throats and stood at attention. “Yeah they just left, did you need Crane to bring you back something?” Sally asked.

“Actually, no...” Abbie replied and scooted toward the desk. She sidled up next to Betsy and grinned sweetly, batting her lashes. “ _Betsy_...”

“Uh oh, I know that look,” Sally commented. “Miss Abbie is up to no good.”

Betsy eyed her suspiciously. “Miss Abbie...” she said slowly.

“What, exactly, can you divulge about your brother's ex-wife?” Abbie asked.

Sally groaned. “Oh God no...”

Betsy's face, however lit up like a Christmas tree and she cackled evilly. “I have been waiting for this day...” Betsy stated, pulling out her phone. “I can give you both her private and business phone number, I can give you her address, I can tell you where that bitch works and where her office is located and the position of her office windows and the nearest tall buildings to get a good shot from, I can tell you what she is listening to on Spotify, I can tell you where her next art showing is... 'cause she has _zero_ concept of setting information as private on social media.” She lowered her phone and bounced excitedly. “So what are you going to do? Hunt her down? Make her go missing? Make her rue the day she besmirched the Crane family name? Is she going to pay for breaking my big brother's heart?”

“I just want to talk to her,” Abbie said levelly. “Without your brother knowing because I know he will try to tell me not to do it.”

Betsy pouted slightly. “Just talk? That's all?” She sighed heavily, suddenly deflated. “She's an art teacher at a community college. Does art showings once a month. Strung my brother along for three freakin' years while she tried to 'sort out her feelings' for Bram... Attends hoity toity parties constantly...”

Abbie and Sally shared a look. “Oh _really_ ,” Abbie asked. “Sally, have I gotten any kind of invites lately?”

“You get them all the time,” Sally replied. “But you usually just toss them in the trash, unless it's one of the ones J goes on about.”

“Sally, if I get any more invites any time soon, let Betsy have a look and let me know if the ex-wife is planning to attend.”

Betsy pulled out her phone and tapped a few things on her screen. “There's... the mayor's ball coming up in two weeks. I know Ichabod is dreading it because it's sort of familial requirement that someone from the Crane family attends and also someone from the Van Tassel family goes. Because they're like, two of the most prominent families in Sleepy Hollow. _And_ odds are, if you are a member of the Chamber of Commerce, you have received an invite.”

Abbie grinned widely. “I _am_ a member of the Greater Sleepy Hollow Tarrytown Chamber of Commerce. Which just leaves me one question... What do you have up your sleeves that I can wear to the mayor's ball, Betsy?” Betsy's face flushed and Sally gave her lover an amused look. “Come on, Betsy... I know you got something. Your brother told me your little secret of how you have been trying to design things in hopes you would have a chance like this some day.”

“That traitorous fuckface,” Betsy growled, shaking her fist lightly. “That depends. How much do you want to stand out and... are you taking my brother as your date?”

“I want _every_ eye on me,” Abbie replied. “And... I had planned on asking but there is no guarantee he will say yes.”

Betsy smiled sweetly. “Oh if you ask, I can guarantee he will say yes. And I have the perfect dress, Miss Abbie.” She tilted her head. “What do you think of the colour red?”

A bright grin slowly spread across Abbie's lips. “I _love_ red.”

  
#  


Parties had never really been Ichabod's favourite thing. Far from it actually. In fact, he loathed them. But as the days wore on, getting closer to the day of the dreaded Mayor's Ball, he found himself actually starting to look forward to it for once. Even the fact his parents had decided they were going to fly in and partake had been unable to rain upon his genuine excitement at attending the event.

His excitement, was wholly and completely due to the fact he would be in attendance with Miss Mills.

At first, when Betsy had presented him with a bright red tie and waistcoat to accompany his formal ware, he had been perplexed as he had never been in the habit of wearing anything that drew too much attention to himself. He may made habit of wearing gold and maybe blue with his work attire... but never _red_ with _anything_. Not to mention, no one ever wore red to the Mayor's Ball. The most provocative colour ever worn to it was a deep emerald green gown his ex-wife had worn and it had caused quite the stir in its day.

_“I made it so you would match Miss Abbie,” Betsy commented. “Since you're asking her to go with you.”_

_“I'm... what?”_

_“There is no way you are going by yourself again this year,” Betsy groused. “So you're asking Abbie. Not because I'm telling you to, not because going alone yet again would bring dishonour on the Crane family name, not because you want to avoid mom bringing Mary Wells and forcing you to go with someone... but because you_ want _to ask her and she wants you to ask her. But also because she's not above asking you herself. And I know you, and if you know she's going to ask you, you will ask her first to prevent feeling silly.”_

So, the very second they had time alone, mere days before the ball—he had sent Thomas on a solo coffee run for the corporate office, a feat which would keep him busy for at least an hour—Ichabod had taken a moment to gather his nerve and asked Miss Mills to accompany him to the ball. He was certain his nervousness had shown when he started talking at great length. But, Miss Mills had stood there, a small smile upon her lips as he yammered on about the history of the mayor's ball and what it signified in the history of Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown. 

It hadn't been until he had started going on about his family history and how they had played a significant part in preserving the historical aspects of the town that he realized the doors to Miss Mills' office had been left open and Sally and Betsy had heard his entire nervousness driven mini-lecture up until the moment Betsy had confiscated the reception phone and hit the intercom button so her voice boomed from Miss Mills' desk phone.

“Ichabod Crane, this is your conscious calling... telling you to _shut up and get to the point already _.”__

__He had stood there, face burning with embarrassment, fingers twitching at his side, and took in a deep breath before taking Miss Mills' hand and dropping into one of the deepest bows he was capable of. “Miss Mills. What I am trying to say is... if you will have me, I would feel both honoured and privileged to have your company at the mayor's ball.”_ _

__Miss Mills had given him a gentle curtsey and sweetly replied, “I would be delighted to be your date, Ichabod.”_ _

__“And I profusely apologize for boring you with... the history of the mayor's ball,” Ichabod said quietly._ _

__“It's fine,” Miss Mills replied. “I know you tend to talk a lot when you feel nervous.” She walked over and closed her office doors, but not before giving both Betsy and Sally an indicator that she had her eyes on both of them. “So tell me... What does my dress look like?”_ _

__“I have no idea,” Ichabod replied truthfully. “All I know is that it is red. And that Betsy said it is her version of an Alessandro Angelozzi wedding dress.”_ _

__Miss Mills groaned with aggravation as she leaned against one of the doors. “I figured she would have at least had a final fitting by now...”_ _

__Ichabod chuckled. “Once she knows your measurements, she generally does not require a final fitting. Like me, she inherited the Ross trait of having an eidetic memory. Although she generally uses hers for recalling pub trivia questions and other useless and inane information.”_ _

__Abbie pushed herself away from the office door and walked toward him slowly. “So what all can I anticipate while on our... _outing_?” she asked seductively. When she reached him she trailed her fingers up his arm. “So I know whether to temper my expectations or make adequate preparations...”_ _

__“Miss _Mills_ ,” Ichabod said with a hushed scandalized tone. “Are you suggesting we have relations on our first date?”_ _

__A lazy smile touched her lips as both of her hands found their way to his shoulders. She dropped her tone low, “Like I said... I need to know whether to temper my expectations or not. I mean, we've already shared sleep space a couple of times...”_ _

__“It does not bother you that I am yet still a married man?” Ichabod asked._ _

__Miss Mills closed her eyes and scoffed lightly. “If I didn't know you were trying very hard to get a divorce... yeah it would. But... I know you're trying. I know someone on your wife's end of the deal is being difficult... so no, it doesn't bother me.”_ _

__“Then by all means, Miss Mills,” Ichabod said softly. “Make as many preparations as you need.”  
_ _

  
#  


Abbie eyed the dress nervously. It was hanging on her bedroom door in all its crimson and sparkling glory. Never in a million years did she think she would wear something so... overtly sensual. It was made of a soft red satin with bands of shimmering red sequins around the waist and criss-crossing under the sweetheart bodice to loop behind to the back of the dress and swoop over the shoulders to frame out the sides of the bust.

The long and sweeping train puddled on the floor, despite the fact the front of the dress stopped a good foot away from the floor, where it was hanging. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when her sole ambition was to make every head in the room turn her way and make every jaw drop.

Abbie had never really seen herself as _that_ woman—the beautiful seductress in a red dress, stealing and breaking hearts with a solitary glance. But, maybe for once, she was going to embrace that which everyone said she was... beautiful, desirable, the queen of hearts.

She took a deep breath and took the dress off the back of her door.

When she arrived at the party, Ichabod was standing outside awaiting her arrival but there were two people who seemed to have captured his attention. He was dashing in his formal suit with bits of bright red peeking out here and there. Despite the presence of the other two people, his head snapped in her direction as soon as she stepped out of the back seat of her car.

His mouth dropped open and that was all she needed to hold her head up and square her shoulders, ready to take on the world.

  
#  


“No, I have _not_ come alone, thank you,” Ichabod said briskly. The blond man in front of him smirked with satisfaction. “She had an emergency which needed seeing to so she is meeting me _here_.”

The red head on Abraham Van Brunt's arm glanced up at him nervously and shifted foot to foot. Something in the woman's eyes was pleading to Ichabod, 'save me,' however he knew there was not a damn thing he could do about it in their current situation. It only served to confirm his suspicions that it was not, in fact, Katrina that was holding up the progress of the divorce.

She said nothing still as Abraham continued on with smug bemusement. “Let me guess... you waited until the last minute to pay your deposit.”

“Bram,” Katrina said softly but still somehow scathingly. She eyed Ichabod questioningly, the dark grey pearls and beading on her gown twinkled in the light of the street lamps. Her red curls were twisted and piled atop her head and muted by black and grey feathers interlaced with sparking black sequins.

Everything possible had been done to make certain she did not stand out in the crowd at the ball.

Abraham chuckled. “Oh come now love,” he cooed softly to Katrina. “It's only a joke. I know he couldn't possibly afford a proper escort to something like this. Which is probably why he had to go the wrong side of town to acquire a piece of filth and is having it cleaned up and delivered.”

“ _Abraham_ ,” Katrina hissed. “There are people close enough to _hear you_.”

That had been the point of course... Bram was trying to get people to chatter and gossip. It was one of his skills as an insufferable ass. So far, Ichabod was barely able to contain the urge to punch him in the face. However, Ichabod kept telling himself that he was _not_ going to give Bram the satisfaction. He held on to the prospect that Miss Mills would soon be arriving.

Before Bram could further insult him, a flash a red caught Ichabod's attention and his eyes were drawn to a shimmering goddess clad in red, a soft smile on her dark painted lips as she floated from the assisting hand of the valet and toward him.

Time seemed to stand still. His head filled with static as he took in the ethereal beauty. There were no words. The world around him ceased to exist when she tilted her chin up and fluttered her lashes. Who had he been talking to? And what had they been saying? Every moment in his eidetic memory had been simultaneously replaced by the vision of Grace Abigail Mills in her red dress. Surprisingly long legs slipped from the split in the skirt as she walked.

When she reached him, she pushed onto her toes and kissed his cheek as she eased her hand into his. “Sorry I'm late,” she said softly. “Bastet decided to try and eat my sister's boyfriend for dinner.”

Ichabod sputtered and shook his head to clear it. “I hadn't even noticed you were late,” he managed. He bowed over the hand. “Miss Mills... You are truly a most holy vision.”

When Ichabod turned slightly to offer his arm to her, he remembered Bram and Katrina's presence. Mostly because Bram's smug smirk had been replaced by befuddlement. “Miss Mills... permit me to introduce Mister Abraham Van Brunt and... Miss Katrina Van Tassel. Mister Van Brunt, Miss Van Tassel... this is Miss Grace Abigail Mills, the CEO of Witness Tactical.”

Katrina smiled tightly but gave a small curtsey to acknowledge Miss Mills. Bram's expression turned sour and he peered down his nose at her. “Charmed,” he said dispassionately.

“It really is such a pleasure to meet you both,” Abbie said kindly. “Both Ichabod and Betsy have told me _a lot_ about your artistic endeavours, Miss Van Tassel. And if you don't mind... I would really love to _help you_ reach the kind of clientele that could make you some _good_ money. And plus it would really be _my honour_ have the art from one of Sleepy Hollow's prominent families on display in my office.”

Katrina looked stunned for a moment and blinked at Miss Mills. Then a soft smile appeared as she glanced between the business woman and Ichabod. “I would be most gracious, Miss Mills.”

Abbie tilted her head as she looked at Abraham. “I don't think I've heard what you do for a living, Mister Van Brunt...”

Bram sneered lightly. “I am heir to the Van Brunt legacy.”

A small hiss escaped Abbie's lips. “Sorry to hear that. But, hey, not _everyone_ has to work hard to be independently wealthy.” She cocked her head the other way. “Although... I don't think I've ever heard of the Van Brunt's? Are they from Sleepy Hollow?”

“No,” Bram drawled. “I am from the Van Brunt's of Kensington...”

“ _Oh_ okay,” Abbie replied. Ichabod looked down at her wondering exactly where she was going with her attempt to rile Bram up. “So... you're not really all that important in these parts.” She smiled sweetly as Bram's smugness was replaced by a look that said _kill_. “Small town politics and all that... But I'm sure you understand.”

Oh, she must have been having some rather delightful conversations with Betsy in the most recent days, Ichabod reasoned. He, himself stood a bit taller and prouder in that moment. “Miss Mills has been in the Forbes Top Ten three years running,” he offered to add insult to injury. “So needless to say, almost everyone knows who she is.”

Abbie gave Katrina her attention again. “Anyway... I would really love to see what you have. Perhaps call my office to set up an appointment sometime next week?” She looked up at him. “Do I have room in my schedule for next week?”

“Monday perhaps?” Ichabod offered. “It would have to be an early appointment as you know Agent Reynolds is always there bright and early on Monday.”

“How does 8am sound, Miss Van Tassel?” Abbie asked, giving Katrina a bright smile.

“That sounds... most delightful Miss Mills,” Katrina said softly. “You are indeed as kind as rumoured.”

Ichabod glanced down at Abbie as she looked up at him once again. “As much as I would enjoy putting off having to associate with my parents... would you like to make your entrance, Miss Mills?”

“I would _love to_ Ichabod,” Abbie replied. “It was really a pleasure to _finally_ meet you, Miss Van Tassel.”

Katrina smiled pleasantly and nodded in agreement. Ichabod swept his lovely companion away toward the door. “You are absolutely ruthless,” Ichabod commended.

Abbie laughed softly. “I wish I could say I learned that on the streets before getting rich... but no, I learned that from J.” A small smile stayed at the corner of her mouth. “So... Monday morning, 8am. She will be there and you can finally talk to her.”

“Thank you,” Ichabod replied quietly. “Was that the only reason you attended the party?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she said as they stopped at the back of the queue of people waiting to enter the ball. “ _But_ , now I have the added features of meeting your folks... _and_...” She turned him toward her, straightened his tie, and smoothed down his waistcoat. “...what I can only hope will be a very... enjoyable _private_ after party at my place.”

They had a hard time discerning which the mayor and other public officials seemed to be more surprised by; the fact Ichabod had actually brought a date or that his date was the much sought after Grace Abigail Mills. Although there was a worrisome expression on the mayor's face as he greeted, “Miss Grace... your secretary had said you would be out of town on business this weekend...”

“There was a mix up in the scheduling, so those plans got cancelled,” Abbie said. “Which was very fortuitous as Mister Crane wanted me to be his date tonight.”

The mayor swallowed hard and smiled tightly. “Oh of course, of course... I had heard rumours...” He looked Ichabod over. “You've done well for yourself boy, Miss Mills is a fine and virtuous lady indeed...” He took Abbie's hand and enveloped it in both of his. “I would be more than pleased if she would, for once, take up politics. Perhaps even run as my replacement when I retire later this year...?”

Miss Mills had made mention of possibly entering the political game once Sally took over as CEO. If the current mayor himself, was supportive of it, Ichabod could honestly see no reason she would have to worry. More so since the mayor had been running unopposed for the last two decades. 

“I'll think about it Bobby,” Abbie said sweetly. 

“ _Please do_ ,” he said quietly and let them continue down the line of greeting those who held public offices.

Once they had made it through the line Abbie shook her head. “That's why I don't like coming to these things,” she sighed. “Miss Mills, run for Mayor... Miss Mills, a position is coming open on the City Council. Miss Mills... run for senator! It's like they want me to be Sleepy Hollow's Leslie Knope.”

“Well, you _do_ have a considerably notable presence in our lovely city,” Ichabod pointed out. “And I, for one, know the Crane family would happily endorse you.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “ _Stop_. I don't need you doing it too.”

Ichabod had fully intended to continue however a chill went up his spine when he heard his father's bawdy laughter from _somewhere_. It was always loud and boisterous and floated through a room like a harsh, vagrant melody so there was no telling where it had actually come from. “Are you absolutely certain you wish to stay until ten?”

Miss Mills looked up at him with a bemused smirk. “ _Yes Ichabod_ , I want to stay a little while. Mostly because it gives my sister time to stop being mad at me because Bast mauled her boyfriend.”

For a moment he wondered when Miss Mills had taken to calling him by his name and tried to fathom why it didn't bother him the way it did when anyone else did so. With Katrina it had always been sweet “pet names” or “my love” _because_ he loathed his name. Yet, he found himself quite enjoying the way Miss Mills said it, followed by a cheeky little smile and wicked glimmer in her eyes. As though she knew, for a fact, she wasn't supposed to be calling him by name but was doing it anyway.

Out of nowhere, Betsy appeared, eyes frantic. “Oh thank God,” she groaned. “Please hurry... I had to leave Sally with mom and dad and I'm not sure how much longer social conventions can keep them at bay. Dad's getting close to talking about when he and mom met, so Me and Sally rock paper scissored to see who would come find you two while they were snipping at each other.” Her eyes swept over Abbie and her eyebrows arched as a pleased smile appeared on her lips. “ _You_ are just... gorgeous.”

Ichabod slipped Abbie's hand off of his arm and then eased his hand to her hip, pulling her close to his side. Abbie's hand came down to softly pat his before settling atop it. Betsy grinned cutely. “I get it, Ich... she's all yours... Now come _on_. Sally is _alone_ with them...”

  
#  


Abbie wasn't sure if she was supposed to be feeling like she had butterflies in her stomach or not, the closer they got to an opened set of French doors that led out onto a balcony. Was it normal to feel butterflies when meeting a guys parents, even when you weren't officially “dating” yet? She had never really gotten to this point before. Ever. 

Well, there had been once when she was in high school, but Abbie doubted that could count. She had just been dropping her drunk and high recently-ex-boyfriend off on his momma's doorstep. He was battered and bruised because he had pulled that macho putting-his-woman-in-her-place crap in front of his friends. It was the first and only time a man had ever lain his hands on her and she was pretty sure he got a second helping from his momma when he sobered up. She wished she could say it had been herself that had delivered most of his beating, but her girl friends had helped—and every last one of them she was still in contact with now and again.

She chuckled lightly when Betsy scurried to Sally's side and linked arms with her. The Crane's—Ross's?—were a very mismatched couple. Ichabod's mother was tall and elegant, dark haired like Betsy. His father was about Betsy's height and stocky with bright blue eyes and maybe, once upon a time, may have had the same dark blond hair as Ichabod. 

As soon as they approached, Ichabod's father looked her over then glared at his son. “Ichabod, which faery queen have you offered yer first born to?” the man scoffed, then smiled brightly as he playfully swatted Ichabod's arm. “That's the only thin' I can think of t' explain this lovely lass. She's entirely too pretty for the likes'a ya.”

A few seconds later, Abbie found herself swept up in a hug so fierce her feet lifted off the ground. “Oh goodness... he's a hugger,” Abbie proclaimed in surprise. Ichabod, Betsy, and their mother all quietly scolded the man, Sally just bit her knuckles and tried not to laugh before mouthing 'it's your turn.'

Mister Ross set her back down after a moment then held her at arm's length. “Well aren't ye a wee pretty lass. So, tiny and slight...” he beamed cheerily. “I bet a strong wind would blow ye 'way.”

“ _James_ that is quite enough,” Ichabod's mother hissed, tugging on his arm to pull him away.

The older man took a step back and tilted his chin up just enough to give Abbie the impression of a man with social decorum. One hand swung lightly at his side and his fingers gave the slightest of twitches. “Forgive m' manners,” he said with a tiny puff, but his accent almost perfectly British. “I forgot Satan's mistress was accompanying me tonight to make certain I behaved m'self.” He gave his attention to Ichabod. “And _whom_. Do. We. Have the. Pleasure of. Making. The. Acquaintances of. This lovely. Evening. Ichabod?”

“Oh for God's sake,” the missus sighed. She stepped forward and offered a polite hand in Abbie's direction. Out of sheer habit, Abbie grasped her hand firmly and gave it a gentle shake which made the woman's eyes light up. “Olympia Ross-Crane, darling,” she greeted with a pleased smile at the corner of her lips. 

“Abbie Mills,” Abbie said lightly.

“We have heard so much about you from Betsy...” Olympia gave Ichabod a scathing look. “Because _someone_ goes out of their way to not speak to us at all.”

“Can y' blame 'im?” Mr. Ross huffed. He took Abbie's hand and kissed it politely. “James Ross-Crane, dear,” he said kindly, his voice back to the thick brogue. He looked between Abbie and Sally with a pleased smile on his face. “American girls are so much prettier than they were in m' day...”

“I'm standing right here, James,” Olympia said flatly.

James gave her an affectionate smile. “Succubi don't have a natio'nality, Ollie.”

“Don't call me Ollie in public, James. We've been through this,” the woman sighed. “You were about to tell the story of how we met...”

While the two exchanged small jabs at each other, Abbie beckoned Ichabod closer. He leaned down so she could whisper into his ear, “Is your Dad drunk?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Ichabod replied, keeping his voice low just for her to hear. “He gave it up before I was born, I'm told. That's just how he is and how a _proper_ Scotsman sounds.”

Abbie cocked an eyebrow and wrinkled her nose. “You're so bad,” she teased.

By time the two stopped bickering, the mayor was ready to give his introductory speech, which meant the tale of how the Ross-Crane's met would have to wait. So distracted by the speech was Abbie and the group were that they did not take notice of the figure slowly making its way through the crowd toward her. 

Abbie glanced up at Ichabod as the mayor spoke about waiting to retire until he could find a worthy person willing to run in his place and the usual spill of how Sleepy Hollow was wonderful city that he enjoyed serving. Near the end, the mayor's voice took on a tremble.

“But, I honestly believe, in our greatest time of need,” the mayor said, “that someone will always be willing to step forward and guide our great city. Everyone, enjoy yourselves, and please feel free to come speak to me if you have any concerns about Sleepy Hollow.”

The attendees all clapped politely as the mayor stepped down from the stair case he had delivered his speech. The Ross-Crane's turned back toward her and their faces looked suddenly stunned.

“My, my, my, Miss _Mills_ ,” a voice said from behind Abbie. The voice sent a chill up her spine and Abbie immediately felt her blood drain to the soles of her feet. “You are certainly looking ravishing tonight.”

She felt Ichabod's fingers flinch with tension against her side, as though he too had that voice haunting his dreams the way it had always seemed to have haunted hers. Together they slowly turned to face the source of the voice. Although it took summoning all of her wits and courage, Abbie lifted her chin defiantly and responded, “Just how the hell are you out of prison, Moloch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: This chapter is going so well... everyone is happy, everyone is getting along well...  
> Muses: Oh, yes, things ARE going very well for every, aren't they?  
> Me: Don't.  
> Muses: You know...  
> Me: Hoe don't do it.  
> Muses: It would be a SHAME if Damon Moloch showed up...  
> Me: I f&cking hate you.


	8. To Feel Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give nathyfaith and majestrix a HUGE HUGE thank you for all they did to encourage/help me on finishing this chapter.

_Abbie lay in the hospital bed staring at her captain in disbelief. “They what?” she asked._

_“You heard me,” Irving said bluntly._

__Two options _: One, accept the dismissal and go find some menial job. Two, accept the terms on paper and receive a meagre pension, collect her work related injury insurance and other benefits. With option two, she could at least maybe work in security and would have a liveable wage coming in. With both the FBI was never going to happen. All her hard work down the drain because she couldn't just let it go._

_“This isn't fair,” Abbie said quietly. She looked over the paper and felt her stomach sinking. “And it couldn't possibly be legal.” She fought back the sting of tears in her eyes. “They _killed_ Corbin... Murdered him, Irving... in cold blood. He ad—”_

_“Is claiming you forced him to confess,” Irving interrupted. Abbie felt that sinking feeling delve even deeper._

_Captain Irving closed his eyes and sucked in a shallow breath. She could tell he was on her side in all of this but knew that would never hold up. She had gone against orders and he wasn't going to go easy about that, mostly because the FBI and CIA had gotten involved. “Trust me, his legal team made sure to put enough loop holes and clauses in it that it's perfectly legal and that any court would have their work cut out for them trying to figure out how to counter it,” Irving pointed out. “There's enough evidence to put him away for at least 20 years without the things that involved you.”_

_Abbie picked up the small bound document that had been included with the note. She smacked it down on her tray table. “Then why the big deal over all of this? And for a measly 20 years?”_

_Irving closed his eyes and sighed. “Because you acted against orders, Mills.” When he opened his eyes there was pity in them. “The legal team is out for blood. So unless you want the Westchester Sheriff's Department to become Moloch's personal army that he can control from behind bars... I would accept one of the two options. Either one and all this goes away and everyone on the outside gets to sleep a little lighter at night.”_

_Either way, Abbie thought, she was selling her soul. She looked at the first statement then the second. She looked at her two options again. Picking up the statement of her choosing, Abbie cleared her throat then moistened her lips. “I, Lt. Grace Abigail Mills of the Westchester Sheriff's Department, deny any involvement, willing or unwittingly, in the case against Damon Moloch.” Tears stung her eyes even more. “All the injuries I have received were from defective equipment which our department was issued from our contracted supplier Apocalypse Supply Limited. Si—sim... Similar equipment was the sole cause of the death of my partner and mentor, Sheriff August Corbin.”_

_Irving was quiet a long moment. He released a heavy sigh and rubbed his face with both hands. “We'll pull strings and get the doctors to declare you unable to return to work,” he said quietly. “It's a small price to pay to make sure he still serves time. You made the right choice, Mills. I'm not going to condone what you did. I would have done it too. Take solace in that at least.”_

_Abbie lowered her gaze to her hands and sighed. “I do have one request though...”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Tell whoever was on that team that shot Moloch, I said thanks,” Abbie said with a rueful smile. “Considering they also shot me, I haven't decided if it's a bittersweet thanks or a sincere one yet. Only time will tell.”_

_“I'll do that,” Irving replied as he stood. He moved toward the door then paused. “For what it's worth, whoever it was, if they hadn't shot you in your hip... Moloch's bullet would have went through your heart instead of your shoulder. It's something to think about.”_

_Abbie drew in a ragged breath then sighed heavily. At this point, despite knowing that the mystery shooter had essentially saved her life, she still didn't know what kind of thank you she wanted to give them._

  
#  


Abbie stared up at her bedroom ceiling. She gently twirled Bastet's fur around her finger. The feline responded by stretching a massive paw across Abbie's neck and licking her jaw.

To say Damon Moloch's presence at the party had throw her into an emotional whirlwind was an understatement. Sally and the others had spent the rest of the time making sure she was all right. In the end, Abbie had left. Alone. 

It had been her own choice to leave alone. Crane had asked numerous times if she needed him to accompany her home. She knew from his tone and the way he cradled her tiny hand in both of his that his intent had been in earnest and not because of the looming prospect of carnal activities. 

Although, given how things had turned out for her so far, she would definitely like give the person that shot her a very earnest 'thank you'. She snorted to hold back a bitter laugh. _She couldn't believe she was actually thankful someone had freakin' shot her._

“Yep, Mommy's officially gone off the deep end,” Abbie whispered conspiratorially to her cat. “And all it took was Moloch making an unannounced return...” She curled around Bastet and sighed. “Hate to say this, baby, but Mommy needs the comfort of human companionship right now.” Bast narrowed her eyes. “Don't look at me with that tone of voice, Missy. There's some things a person can do that pretty kitties can't.”

Abbie reached for her phone blindly and pulled up her contacts. Maybe it _was_ time. Someone she _knew_ could empathize... She selected the name and listened to the gentle jazz ringback tone until she heard a low relieved rumbling voice, “Abbie...?”

“Hey,” she said quietly. She debated what she was going to say. She didn't want to sound vulnerable but she couldn't exactly muster her normal business tone at the moment. For once, she let herself be bare and honest with the person on the other end of the line. If she couldn't do it now, then what was the use in even calling him. “I need you.”

“I'm on my way.”

She hung up and sat up in her bed, Bastet giving a soft questioning _raow_ as Abbie shuffled out of bed and hurried to her bathroom to make sure her make up still looked decent. Jenny had left before she had gotten home because Bastet had bitten her bad enough that she refused to stay, so Abbie hadn't been able to get out of her dress. Not to mention Bastet had mauled a pillow because she had been left alone.

Her doorbell chimed in the midsts of her trying to tidy up her bed—aka, shoo away Bastet. Abbie hiked up the skirt and scurried to the door. It couldn't possibly be... it would take at least an hour in current traffic conditions...

Yet when she opened the door, there stood Crane, a hand braced on either side of the door jamb. There was a worrisome wildness to his eyes, his tie hung loose and his waist coat was unbuttoned along with the top most buttons of his shirt.

“I was in the lobby when you called,” he replied to her unasked question.

Abbie felt her heart stammer in her chest. She had no words for how the hell this man had managed to so easily worm his way under her skin and figure her out. She did know one thing, however; she was absolutely done playing games. 

Grabbing his tie, Abbie walked backwards until he was able to swing the door shut behind him. She then dragged his mouth down to hers, wrapping her arms around his neck as his arms went about her waist and lifted her feet off of the floor. He carried her straight to her bedroom and then tumbled onto the bed. 

Abbie tugged impatiently on his coat, trying to get it down his arms. Ichabod straddled her knees and sat up so he could shrug off the coat, followed quickly by his waist coat and tie. Abbie grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back down so she could capture his lips. When he braced himself with a hand on either side of her head, Abbie started plucking buttons free one-by-one until she had to tug the tails of his shirt from his trousers. The remaining buttons ended up flying off in directions unknown because Abbie's patience was quickly running out. She pressed her palms against his chest and pushed back. 

Abbie scowled when he lifted his head to gaze at her questioningly. Instead of getting skin, she had gotten an under shirt. “Just how many layers are you wearing?” she asked incredulously, tugging at the bottom of the shirt, tugging it from his trousers.

“Last one, I promise,” Ichabod murmured and yanked the shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

“Much better,” Abbie said softly. trailing her fingers through the soft trail of hair that ran from his stomach and disappeared into the waistline of his trousers. She fumbled with his belt then with the button and zip. 

Ichabod caught her bottom lip between his teeth then gently tugged and sucked on it. Abbie opened her mouth and he immediately seized the opportunity to take full possession. Abandoning her current path, she grabbed two handfuls of his hair. A small yelp escaped from Abbie when Ichabod rolled so she was atop him. 

Abbie pulled back to suck in a deep breath. She sat up, straddling his hips as she gazed down at him. “I feel a little over dressed,” she commented, softly stroking a path along a scar that marred his chest. She couldn't help but wonder where it had come from, if he had gotten in the military or maybe in a bar fight with a big dude named Tiny. Whoever it was, she wanted to hunt them down and make them suffer for doing it.

Ichabod's propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes slowly roaming over her. “Shall I do something about that?” he asked with a coy smirk appearing on his lips. Abbie nodded as he grasped her hip with one hand then slid it behind her back and up her spine to capture the zip in the middle of her back—just out of her own reach. 

His breath hitched when he guided the straps down her arms and her dress pool around her waist. Ichabod's hands started at her waist and ghosted up her sides. Instead of going straight for her breasts, like Abbie had expected, he gathered her close and kissed her softly. He took time to find out what would make moan softly or arch into his touch as he explored her mouth and his hand glided effortlessly up and down her spine.

When Abbie pulled back to catch her breath, she found herself unable to do so solely due to the way he was looking at her. She took his face in her hands and felt him shift slightly before she heard his shoes hit the floor next to the bed. Words wanted to make their way out of her lips, words that she didn't think she should be wanting to say so soon. So, Abbie kept them to herself like a little secret that she could keep from him, but thought that he would somehow know that small detail about her too and spring his knowledge of it on her when she least expected it.

Ichabod searched her face and next she knew she was on her back on the mattress again. A small giggle escaped her lips—her, giggling, of all things! It had been ages since she had allowed herself to earnestly do something so many people took advantage of. He scrambled to push the gown over her hips and down her legs, leaving her completely naked for his hungry gaze. Once it completely sunk in that there was nothing more for him to strip away from her body, Ichabod blinked in surprise.

“Did... were you...” he sputtered, his face flushing a soft pink.

Abbie smirked coyly. “Would it have changed anything if you had known I wasn't wearing anything under my dress?” she asked, arching a brow.

Ichabod sucked in a sharp breath and laughed softly. “I imagine, had I been privy to such information, we never would have made it inside of the mayor's mansion...”

If _she_ had known _that_ , she probably would have _made_ an opportunity to tell him. It certainly would have allowed less conflict to take residence in her head and ruin the evening. Although, she wasn't exactly certain she could say the night was a complete bust. She still had Ichabod in her bed and he _definitely_ had the same thing in mind as she did at that moment.

Abbie sat up and trailed her fingers down his chest until she reached the unfastened button of his trousers. “Well, now _you're_ the one that's over dressed Mister Crane,” she teased. “You should remedy this issue immediately.”

“Straight away, Miss Mills,” he murmured and brushed his lips over hers before scurrying off of the bed to remove his trouser socks and then his trousers. 

For a moment Abbie wanted to ask him about where his own underwear had been all night, but then she would have to pretend she hadn't noticed he _never_ seemed to wear them. Or would not asking make him aware that she already knew? She was about to ask just for the sake of hearing him admit it, when she had to fight the sudden urge to bite a rather delectable spot just above his hip.

Abbie was not completely sure where the urge was coming from but she licked her lips in anticipation of doing that very thing. She was crawling across the bed when he turned and caught her in the act. Sitting back on her heels, she painted herself as the picture of innocence and purity. Or rather, as innocent and pure as a naked woman could make herself look with her face heated with desire and on her knees in the middle of a big bed.

A smug little smirk pulled at the corner of Ichabod's lips, like he had known exactly what she had been wanting to do. His eyes roamed over her slowly.

“What do you think you're looking at?” Abbie asked, a soft teasing tone in her voice. She reciprocated the exploratory gaze and realized she was about to be a very lucky woman. 

“A woman so beautiful it defies logic,” he replied.

Abbie moistened her lips. He locked his gaze on the tiny movement and before Abbie could catch her breath, he was advancing on her. She gasped and moaned as his hands grasped her ass and lifted her off of the mattress. Abbie instinctively wrapped her arms and legs around him and his mouth crashed into hers.

Her back came in contact with the bed. She gripped two handfuls of his hair and arched against him, wanting to be closer. Abbie knew the only way that would happen was if she was able to have him inside of her.

“Ichabod,” she breathed hotly against his lips. Her head fell back and his mouth explored her neck, finding all the right spots that drove her into a frenzy with _want_. “God dammit, Ichabod...” He lifted his head and he gave her a small, smug smile. She brushed her lips over his and softly whispered, “I need _you_.”

“And me you shall have,” he murmured.

One more fragment of his restraint broke free and his mouth greedily nipped and sucked at her breasts. His hands stroked and palmed her hips and stomach. Abbie tugged on his hair. “ _Ichabod_ ,” she whimpered and made him look at her. “I'm not going to say it again... I _need_...” She cupped his cheeks in her hands. “ _You_.”

He searched her face for a moment. A wicked little smirk appeared at the corner of his lips. Abbie could help but respond by grinning ear to ear. “Do you know something about me that I do not, Miss Mills?”

“I know lots of things,” Abbie replied playfully.

She had never been a big fan of foreplay. Especially when she had a specific need for release—her current state being she wanted to feel safe, secure, and alive.

Abbie soon discovered she very much enjoyed having Ichabod's mouth slowly roving over every available inch of skin he could logically reach. When he found a spot that made her gasp softly, he spent just the right amount of time, after ward, kissing and nibbling the spot until she almost felt like pushing him away to keep her from going crazy.

Abbie yanked hard on his hair and gave a firm “nah-uh” when his mouth tried to roam between her legs. His eyes connected with hers and he slowly kissed a path up her stomach to her lips. He arched a questioningly brow, Abbie chuckled and shook her head. “Maybe later...” she said softly. “Right now, I want you.”

She slid her fingers behind his neck and into his hair, gasping into his mouth as she feels his delightful fingers part her folds gently. "I'm going to need something more substantial than a finger, Mr. Crane," Abbie murmured, her warning collapsing into a blissful groan as he pushes it into the hilt. 

Abbie wants to look down because there's no way that's just his finger, she thinks, then he has the nerve to add a second, pumping them in and out with the barest hint of smugness in his expression. "Oh, but wait until you feel what my fingers can do," he replied coyly as she grew wetter by the second.

She wanted to challenge his theory—out of pure reflex because most men had it in their heads that their finger could be an acceptable temporary replacement. However, she would be lying if she said she hadn't imagined all the things his fingers might be capable of. She had watched them all too intently and had sometimes been driven to distraction by his fingers and the delicate way they flittered and twitched as he went about his daily tasks.

Then her body belies any dissent she may have had when her thighs part further and her hips arch toward his hand. Her hands fell away from his hair and she gripped her pillow tightly instead. She was already trembling when she heard Ichabod's low rumbling voice softly say, “ _Beautiful_.”

His mouth greedily nipped and sucked at the curves of her breasts before nuzzling his face between them. His hand stilled for a moment as he breathed her in then sighed raggedly against her skin. Abbie panted for breath as Ichabod murmured softly. Just as she was regaining her ability to think coherently, his lips closed around her nipple and he redoubled the efforts of his fingers inside of her.

All it took was a twist of his wrist and Abbie felt like her entire being had dissolved into euphoric cloud. She was vaguely aware of the string of swears that escaped her lips as he dragged out her pleasure to the point she had to grab his wrist and pant for him to stop. Ichabod lifted his head and slowly removed his fingers from inside of her. 

Abbie swiped the back of her hand over her forehead as she watched Ichabod put the same fingers into his mouth. His eyes, which were already dark with desire, grew even darker. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips once he removed his fingers. Ichabod rested his forehead against hers and lightly brushed his lips over hers. Abbie grabbed his face and refused to let him pull away until she felt thoroughly kissed.

One of her hands drifted down his body—and she grinned when he flinched because her fingers crossed a ticklish spot. He groaned loudly into her mouth when she grasped the hard, heated length she had been feeling against her thigh for the past few minutes. “I take it you wish to continue?” Ichabod asked, one of his hands stilling hers.

“It'd be a shame to turn back now,” Abbie replied softly, with a small laugh. She gave his chest a small push and rolled over to reach into her night stand drawer. As soon as her fingers grasped the tiny handle, Ichabod was kissing and nibbling his way up the backs of her thighs, his hands grasped the swell of her ass. “ _Shit_ ,” she growled.

She was about ready to say 'fuck it' and let his mouth do whatever the hell it wanted in that area of her body. The only thing stopping her was the promise of things to come. Things she didn't want to wait for any more. 

Abbie snatched the drawer open so ferociously that it landed on the floor. He was going to drive her insane, she just knew it. She was already having a hard time concentrating on grabbing one of the condoms from the drawer. So she just grabbed a handful of them and threw them over her shoulder.

Ichabod chuckled lightly as he brushed the packets off of her back. “I assume getting pelted in the face with condoms means you wish to progress?”

“You would be assuming correctly,” Abbie panted. “For the love of God, you're about to drive me crazy... so by all means... progress!”

It's said that good things come to those who wait. Abbie had only come to believe that particular theory in recent years. She had waited for the first couple of years in building her business and good fortune had spilled itself in her lap. She had waited for love and here it was, all hers, in the guise of Ichabod Crane. She didn't want to wait another minute longer and she didn't have to.

Ichabod pulled away from her, just long enough to turn her over onto her back. He grasped her behind her knees and dragged her closer. 

Abbie leaned up enough to palm his chest, stomach, arms, anything she could logically reach until Ichabod waved her hands away. He cocked a brow at her as his fingers flicked impatiently before he selected one of the packets off of the bed. She was definitely never going to be able to concentrate on his hands while at work ever again—those sinful things.

 _How dare he stop her from touching him_?

Actually she was pretty sure she would never be able to concentrate on anything ever again while he was in the room. She could easily foresee many lunchtimes in her future that consisted of her naked backside on her desk.

Her heart skipped a beat when Ichabod rolled on the condom. She searched his face as he did hers, both hoping the other wanted what was about to happen just as much as they did. Abbie swallowed hard, trying to set aside the swell of emotion that filled her as every doubt she may have had about _this_ —whatever it was—was brushed away.

She pulled his mouth to hers. Abbie didn't think she would ever get enough of kissing him, tasting him, feeling his hair between her fingers. That is, until Ichabod began the torturously slow movement inside of her. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt him move in deeper. “Oh... God...” she breathed shakily as he filled her.

Abbie scratched her nails down his back then dug them into the flesh of his ass. “I need you closer,” she growled, tilting her hips to give him a better angle. She didn't know or care about how logical it was with him seated completely inside of her. She didn't think he would ever be able to get close enough to please her.

Ichabod rested his forehead against hers and caught her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging on it gently before releasing it. “Trust me,” Ichabod murmured darkly. “If I could just crawl up inside of you I would.”

She licked her lips eagerly then lightly nibbled at his ear lobe, getting two handfuls of his hair. “I dare you.”

He pressed in deeper, his hips jerking hard against her. Abbie's tugged hard on his hair as she let out a loud moan. His hands glided around her as he pushed against her harder, one cradling the back of her neck the other grasping her ass. Ichabod made soft growling noises with each push forward. After a moment he swore between his clenched teeth, his eyes wide and wild with the need to fulfil Abbie's challenge.

His hands moved down her body, grasped her behind the knees, and hiked them further up his sides as he sat back on heels. He grasped her hips tightly and slammed hard into her. Abbie panted heavily as he hit just the right spot inside of her. She grabbed greedily at his body then reached behind her head to grasp the edge of the bed as her back arched away from the bed. 

“I... Ich... Oh... ah...” was all she managed to utter before she started trembling and the only thing she could do was emit soft whimpering screams.

“Oh yes... my Abbie. My beautiful Abigail...” She was only vaguely aware of Ichabod speaking because she was too busy riding the high. She was, however, very aware that he was still thrusting against her with an unrelenting pace, quickly rebuilding the coiling feeling in the pit of her belly. 

Abbie's eyes widened and she gasped loudly, wrapping her arms around legs around his sturdy frame as he lifted her away from the mattress as though she were weightless. He hands gripped her ass firmly as he then pressed her up against the cushiony wall of her headboard. Ichabod drove his cock deeper, hitting her spot with ease as he pinned her between the headboard and his body. Her head fell back as she cried out his name.

His movements became erratic, desperate even. “Come for me, baby,” Abbie demanded breathlessly. She looked him in the eyes then lightly stroked her thumb across the apple of his cheek to wipe away a stray tear. She kissed him soundly. He moaned into her mouth and she could feel him pulsing inside of her as he finally found his release.

She rested her forehead against his as he finished riding out his own orgasm and he was panting heavily against her lips. Abbie swallowed hard as he gently rocked against her before sighing with relief. “Was that close enough?” Ichabod asked softly.

“Oh yeah,” Abbie whispered. “More than close enough.” 

Ichabod brushed her hair away from her face then cradled her face in his hands as his thumbs wiped at her cheeks. “You're crying.”

“So are you.”

A small, smug smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “A testament to mutual enjoyment.”

Abbie laughed lightly. “Well, at least I can say I've had sex so good it made me cry.”

She squealed as Ichabod hoisted her away from the headboard then lay her down on the bed. He placed small kisses all over her face. “If you will excuse me for a moment?” Ichabod asked.

Abbie pouted slightly but let him pull away, gasping when he pulled out and moved to the edge of the bed to remove the condom. She already missed having him inside of her. She arched a brow when Ichabod swore quietly. “Problems?”

“The prophylactic, it seems, was faulty,” he sighed.

Shaking her head, Abbie chuckled. “I have an implant that still has a good seven months left before I have to get a new one. And I'm clean.” 

“As am I.”

“So no worries.” She arched a brow when she heard claws on the underside of her door. “I'll be right back.” 

Abbie hopped out of the bed, her legs wobbled for a moment before she found her footing and made her way to the en suite. When she returned to the bedroom, her door had been opened slightly and Ichabod was lounging on the bed with Bastet standing on the pillows, staring down at him. He gently rubbed the cat behind her ears and made a small kissy sound. Bastet responded by slamming her face against his mouth.

“Pfft, not even out of the room for five minutes and you have another girl in the bed with you,” Abbie teased.

“She sounded immensely distraught over being shut out,” Ichabod said.

“She gets separation anxiety,” Abbie explained, crawling into the bed next to him. “I've had to replace that door twice from where she's clawed through it to get to me.” 

Ichabod turned and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Abbie snuggled down in his arms, laughing when he sputtered because she nudged her backside against him. His fingers grasped her hip and flexed. “Behave,” he murmured. 

“I am behaving. I'm just behaving badly.” She shifted around until she was facing him and cupped his cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Whatever for?” he asked curiously.

“For being you,” Abbie said quietly.

Ichabod smiled almost bashfully. “Well, I will most certainly endeavour to continue doing so.” He shifted onto his back and pulled her close to his side. After a moment he sighed contentedly and kissed her atop the head. “Good night, Abigail.”

“Good night, Ichabod,” Abbie said softly.

  
#  


_Ichabod looked up from his book as Betsy fiddled with a set of binoculars at the window. “Betsy,” he said with a warning tone. “If we get caught, I will make absolutely certain that your superiors know you refused to listen to orders...” She ignored him. “We are only successful if we can complete this detail without the target even knowing they had protectors.”_

 _Without looking away from her task, Betsy stretched one arm in his direction with only her middle finger on display. “Sorry, she's gorgeous and wearing teeny tiny shorts while tending her garden... and for once that is_ not _a euphemism.” She lowered the binoculars and looked back at him. “Then again you're married now, so of course a beautiful woman has no appeal to you.”_

_Ichabod stared at Betsy a long moment and tried to suppress a smile. “Did you make certain to grab your own binoculars this time Betsy?” he asked levelly._

_“Of course I did. You're constantly nagging me about just grabbing yours,” she scoffed. She tossed her platinum blonde hair—as it was in those days—over her shoulder with a huff. The black smudges around her eyes gave away the fact she was not, in fact, using her own binoculars. Realization crossed her features and she set them down on the window sill and rushed out of the study. A few seconds later her voice roared through the house, “_ God dammit, Ich _... I'm going to fucking... kick your fucking ass you piece of shit mother fucker.”_

_“You do that and I will make absolutely certain you get a dishonourable discharge,” Ichabod called back, idly turning the page of his book._

_“I look like a fucking raccoon, Ichabod,” Betsy griped, stomping back into the room. She was mopping away at her eyes with a wet wipe then did the same to the eyelets of the binoculars. “You would think you would curb your anal retentive 'don't touch my things' thing for your own flesh and blood sister.”_

_“Every one that knows you, knows that you are the one person I should remain adamant in assuring they do not touch my things. Or need I remind you of how you had an entire squadron worried you had licked their food?” He stared at her pointedly. “Go get yours.”_

_“They deserved it!” Betsy huffed and snorted then stomped out of the room, throwing his binoculars into his gut as she passed. Ichabod waited until he heard Betsy's bedroom door slam shut, then put in his book mark and set his book aside. He pulled himself from his seat and meandered to the window. Surely it wouldn't hurt to at least check for any suspicious vehicles on the street..._

_The sweep took a grand total of three seconds, Ichabod then focused on the person he and Betsy were in charge of keeping unharmed. As Betsy had said, she was in her garden, tending to some rose bushes. Or rather she would have been had old Miss Bradbury from down the way wasn't stopped and gushing over the woman's handiwork in the garden._

_As a rule, Ichabod never looked at the name of the 'target'—he only ever referred to them as the target as someone was trying to kill them. In this woman's case, she was being targeted by Damon Moloch in the middle of an FBI case that was supposed to help collapse his empire. All Ichabod knew about her was that she was a lieutenant for the sheriff's department and she had recently lost her mentor because of Moloch. The information she had been feeding the FBI contact had thus far proven invaluable, despite the fact she was supposed to be keeping her nose out of the case._

_And if there was one thing the FBI was good at, it was letting someone else do all the work for them then swooping in to save the day. But Betsy was not wrong when she said the Lieutenant was a lovely woman. He felt his face warm and it felt like butterflies had been set loose in his stomach when she laughed at something Mrs. Bradbury said._

_Ichabod jumped and fumbled with his binoculars when he heard Betsy's voice directly at his side. “She's gorgeous isn't she? Too bad you married that red headed bitch, otherwise we could see who could get a date first.”_

_“You haven't even met Katrina yet, so please refrain from speaking rudely of her,” Ichabod huffed._

_“I don't have to have met her. All I have to know is that she didn't even have the decency to break things off with Bram herself, she had you tell him,” Betsy retorted. “And that is all I need to know to get a feel for what kind of person she is. But, nice job trying to deflect the fact you were checking out the target.”_

_He sniffed indignantly. “I wasn't_ checking her out _. I was checking the perimeter to make certain she was not in immediate danger.”_

_“Yeah. I'm sure you _were_ checking out her perimeter.” Betsy put her own binoculars to her eyes and scoffed. “Urgh... Miss Bradbury. Go away. No body wants to dry ass blueberry scones. Especially that ethereal beauty.”_

_“Her scones are delightful,” Ichabod grumbled, tucking his binoculars under his arm. He strode purposely to his seat and sat down. “And should you get the nerve to ask the lovely lieutenant for a date, do remember we must be professional so do not do anything I would have to write a report about.” He removed a leather bound journal from the table next to his seat. He found the page he had been on and found the next blank line. **15:32 – The Lieutenant spent time in her garden, had a visit from Miss Bradbury down the way. All appears well. Ofc. Ross taking over detail.**_

_When he glanced up at Betsy, she was giving him a hard glare. “You know what... fuck you, Ichabod. Fuck you, up the ass, sideways, with a fucking cactus.” She set down her binoculars. “I'll go over there right now and ask her for a date.”_

_“Not whilst you're on duty, you won't,” Ichabod said flatly. “And that was incredibly rude and offensive. Do be more mindful of such in the future.”_

_“Okay, Mom,” Betsy grumbled._

  
#  


Abbie lay propped up on one elbow and lightly brushed a stray bit of hair from Ichabod's face. He hummed in his sleep and murmured softly. She couldn't help but wonder what he was dreaming about. Was he dreaming about her? Their future? Their past? Or maybe he was dreaming of something nonsensical and in no way relating to them.

He probably thought she hadn't connected all the dots just yet. But she had pieced it together in Los Angeles. It didn't hurt that his full background check had come in and she had managed to procure some information that she wasn't meant to be privy to. Turned out having an FBI agent in love with her had its advantages—because they would share information they wasn't supposed to in order to try and win her over.

Information like the identities of the people the FBI hired to protect her when they had been investigating Moloch. Although Abbie was pretty sure she would have put it together without Reynolds' help. After all, despite how vastly different Ichabod looked with a beard and slightly longer hair, he still wore the same damn coat.

He had kept his distance in those days, but she had taken notice of him. Watching her. Making notes. Sending her little looks that she had several times thought to be flirtatious before looking away shyly and going about his business. He had never made any kind of move so she hadn't. In hindsight, she supposed it was because he was happily married at the time. She had unintentionally run into him at the grocery store, distastefully eyeballing three different brands of quinoa.

She had slipped in right under his nose and grabbed her preferred brand and gotten out of the way. He had then blindly grabbed the remaining boxes of the brand she had gotten, dumped them into his cart, then quickly disappeared around the corner before she could finish batting her lashes and say 'hi'.

It seemed, almost at every turn they were somehow running into each other. He always looked surprised, as though he had been intentionally avoiding her but had been unsuccessful. If it wasn't the grocery store, it was the gas station, Starbucks, or the section at the drug store that housed sleep aids.

Then he had just seemingly disappeared without a trace after everything went down with Moloch and she had let herself forget about him until Danny had brought her the folder on both Ichabod and Betsy.

It had been a shock to see it right there in front of her. The most shocking thing hadn't been the fact Betsy's status had read “Inactive” or that she was sporting blonde hair in her photo. No, the shocking thing had been that Ichabod's had said “Active” with an active date of about a month before he had started working for her.

Had he been called back in _just_ to protect her? If he had, given how things occurred last time, _why_? Had he been the one to shoot Moloch? Or had he been the one to shoot her in the hip? And why had he broken his normal MO of keeping himself at a distance? She knew that much by listening to Betsy chatter about their days in Special Ops—which Abbie wondered how the hell Betsy ever had a career as a spy when she was constantly gossiping about their various on goings. 

Although, all things considered, Betsy had mentioned that her career as a spy was very short. But she had mentioned that Ichabod had the mentality that if the person he had been assigned to never knew he was there, that meant he had done his job like he was supposed to do.

Abbie could help but wonder what made her so special? Not just the last time, but this time as well. One couldn't get any more opposite of 'never knowing he's there' than having him in her bed.

“Did I wake you?” Ichabod said softly. Abbie refocused on his face. His lips were gently parted and his eyes were barely open. “... Apologies. Didn't mean to...” His eyes closed and he gently stroked her hair.

Abbie rested her head on his chest and huddled closer to him. “I was already awake,” she replied quietly, but judging by the way his hand had suddenly stilled, he was fast asleep once again. She decided to let herself think further on everything after she had gotten more sleep.

  
#  


When Abbie next awoke she was staring into a pair of big golden eyes across Ichabod's chest. Bastet had done made herself cosy on his other side and looked damn smug about it. Abbie narrowed her eyes. Bastet huddled closer to him, rested her chin on his chest, and stretched a paw further to bat at Abbie's nose. Abbie scrunched her nose. “Back off bitch, he's mine,” she said quietly then gave a tiny, playful hiss before reaching over to poke Bastet's nose.

Bastet's eyes slowly drifted closed and she fell to sleep, her paw still stretched across Ichabod's chest possessively. _The nerve_ , Abbie thought with amusement. It was a new experience having a bed partner that honestly did not mind if Bastet shared the space. For once she didn't have to listen to the cat caterwauling and clawing at her door due to being put out because Thomas was allergic or because her boyfriends didn't like cats or her girlfriends thought it was nasty to let animals share the bed—both friends that were girls and a girl she had briefly dated for about four months.

“Thank God you're finally awake,” Ichabod said with a soft sigh.

Abbie shifted her weight off his arm. Bastet gave an affronted _vvrrrp_ when Ichabod hurried out of the bed and to the en suite. Abbie's brows arched as she watched his naked, retreating form. Once the door shut she hummed softly and looked at Bastet, who was now busily licking her paw and cleaning her face. “Now that is what I call a scenic view,” she said wistfully. Bastet stopped grooming herself and blinked at Abbie. “I have _got_ to stop talking to you like you're a human being.” Another blink from the cat. “Stop judging me.”

Her doorbell chimed. Abbie groaned, fished Ichabod's shirt from the floor, and pulled it on. It effectively swallowed her. She buttoned it up as she went to the door., despite the missing buttons, everything was still properly concealed. After peering out of the peephole, she let her sister in. Jenny instantly hugged her tightly.

“Are you okay? TMZ was running something about Damon Moloch showing up at the Mayor's Ball last night. I came over because I couldn't get you on your phone. How was he even invited?” Jenny asked.

Abbie held her sister at arms length. “I'm okay. I was just... a little shook, of course but, I'm good. Apparently one of the other guests brought him as their plus-one. The mayor was furious and is trying to find out who the person was.”

Jenny's eyes slowly roamed down Abbie's tiny form. “Oh... sorry I didn't realize Tommy boy was here...”

Abbie's face warmed. “Actually—”

At that very moment, Bastet trotted happily into the room and whirled around Abbie's ankles. She was followed almost immediately by Ichabod, in only his trousers from the night before. His hair was thoroughly tousled giving him an almost boyish appearance as he rubbed his eyes. “Abigail, do you by chance know what happened to my... Oh, good morning, Miss Jenny.”

“No wonder you wasn't answering your phone,” Jenny leered cheekily. Ichabod flushed pink and his fingers fidgeted at his side as he studied his feet. He took a few tentative steps backwards then quickly dashed back to the bedroom. “I was thinking maybe me and you could have breakfast to talk about what happened last night but... uhh... looks like you already have breakfast plans.” She laughed uncomfortably. “And... now it's awkward.”

“Actually, I was getting ready to start cooking some breakfast,” Abbie said. “Bastet gets moody if I don't feed her by 9 anyway. You can join us, if you want.”

Jenny shook her head. “Nah-uh. I am not making that mistake again. Just let me know when you send tall, British, and sexy home and I'll come over.” A little smirk appeared on Jenny's lips. “By the way... nice upgrade.”

Abbie cocked her head slightly. “Thanks. But, if he lets me, I'm probably going to hold him hostage all weekend. So... Monday, lunch?”

“Works for me,” Jenny said, then gave Abbie a kiss on the cheek to accompany one last hug as Ichabod returned, tugging his under shirt on. “But I fully expect details on more than just the run in with Moloch.”

Abbie laughed and showed Jenny out. She sighed and rested her forehead against the door once she closed it. After a moment she became aware of cabinets and the fridge opening and closing. She turned to see Ichabod getting all the supplies necessary to make breakfast. “Oh no you don't,” she scolded lightly, scurrying over to relieve him of the items in his hands. “I am not having some weird British breakfast.” She shooed him to the other side of the island and pointed to one of the bar seats. “You sit. _I_ will take care of breakfast.”

Ichabod pulled her close once he eased into one of the seats. “I would never so much as dream of doing something which would leave you anything other than completely satisfied.” 

Abbie squealed then laughed as he hoisted her up onto his lap, straddling his thighs. He took her face in his hands, peppered kisses all over her face before settling on her lips and drinking her in slowly, until she was breathless.

“And I would expect nothing less from you,” Abbie replied softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “You do a lot for me. Just sit down and let me do something for once.” She touched her tongue to her lips, sampling the taste of him that lingered there. Her eyes flashed wickedly as she scooted off of his lap. He made a move to follow after her but she promptly pointed a finger at him. “Nah-uh. Right there. Otherwise nothing will get done.”

She moved to the counter and gathered up the breakfast goodies, taking them to the stove. “Besides... there's a few things we should maybe talk about before we get in too deep with _this_.” She waggled her finger between the two of them.

“I would think it obvious that it is rather late for that,” Ichabod replied. The butterflies returned to her stomach when he gave her a dreamy, come hither stare. “I, for one, am already in far deeper than I ever anticipated.”

Abbie freshened Bastet's water and measured out a helping of kitty kibble before returning to the breakfast. “Same here,” she said quietly. “Which, makes what I am about to ask very... awkward.”

Ichabod sucked in a sharp breath and he fidgeted uncomfortably. “If it's concerning any kind of carnal act, I assure you that I am open to almost anything. So long as a third party is not involved.”

“No threesomes or voyeurism, gotcha,” Abbie said with a grin. She studied his face for a long moment, drinking in the gentle affection shining in his eyes and soft, contented smile on his lips. Closing her eyes for a moment, Abbie took a cleansing breath of courage. “This is probably going to make you uncomfortable but... it's something I have to know. Especially now that Moloch has returned.”

He nodded lightly, his expression sobering. 

“Was it you or Betsy,” Abbie asked. Ichabod frowned with confusion for a moment. Before he could form the query as to what she meant, she added, “On that day with Moloch. Was it you or Betsy that shot me?”

The look on his face gave her all the answers she needed.

  
#  


_Abbie awoke in a cold sweat at the sound of her doorbell chiming. Part of her was thankful because it meant she was not having to relive the events that had taken place just six months past. Another part of her was furious that someone was ringing her doorbell so early in the morning after she had worked until 3am._

_She pulled her robe on over her shorts and tanktop and hurried down the steps of the old colonial style home that her mentor, August Corbin, had left her in his will. All she could do was thank God for small miracles on that one, otherwise she may have been without a roof over her head after all the crap with Moloch._

_Her job at the security company paid decent enough, but it wasn't enough to cover a rent payment and utilities on her old apartment, as well as the necessities she needed to survive and actually make it to work. As it was, she was saving up enough money to buy a new pair of work boots when her current ones finally bit the dust._

_“Hey Abbie,” the young woman in a postal uniform greeted cheerily._

_“Hey, Kara, what's up?” Abbie asked._

_“Sorry to wake you but... I have a certified for you,” the young woman replied._

_Abbie wrinkled her nose as she signed for it. “Is it another law firm telling me I have to pay an outstanding debt?”_

_“I have no idea,” Kara replied. “All I know is that it's from someone here in Sleepy Hollow.” She removed the little signature slip and handed the letter over to Abbie. Sure enough the only thing in the return address space was_ Sleepy Hollow, NY _. “You want me to stay for a minute to make sure it's nothing dangerous?”_

_She nodded and opened the envelope. When she removed the neatly folded letter a slip of paper fluttered out and the mail carrier scrambled to catch it as it threatened to blow away in the breeze. Abbie unfolded the letter and read the neat scrawl on the page._

_“My dear Lieutenant,” Abbie read quietly. “It is my most profound wishes that this letter finds you in good health and recovering from your recent injuries...” She scanned the next few lines detailing that the penman was one of two agents that had been assigned to protect her during the Moloch case. “It was brought to my attention that your injury on the case put an end to your desire to join the FBI or continue your work with the Sheriff's Department. Although there is nothing I can do to change the decisions of those involved upon the matter—and I assure you I have tried—there is something that is within my power to at least make amends for all that you have lost due to my inability to properly protect you. I find it wholly unfitting that the one who showed the most bravery in confronting Moloch should be punished.”_

_Kara returned with the the paper that had fluttered out and handed it over to Abbie._

_“Therefore, instead of keeping the reward for Moloch's capture,” Abbie continued reading. “I am bestowing it to you, the one who is truly deserving of it. Whilst it can never replace the dreams you once had, perhaps it can assist you in building and achieving a new one.”_

_There was no signature. Abbie frowned and looked at the slip of paper. She blinked when she realized it was a certified check—baring her name in the 'Pay the order to' section, from the US government, which made it even harder to determine who had sent the letter. At first she had thought, maybe it would be enough to get those boots she needed or maybe enough to set up a nice savings account._

_But then Kara had to catch her as her knees buckled from the sheer shock at seeing so many zeros on a check that bore her name._


End file.
